by Allison Lane
“Of course,” ventured Esther with a sigh. “Just like a Minerva Press tale. The duke will sweep home in our darkest hour to rescue us. I can see him now, thundering up the drive on a white charger. Tall like his father. And strong. Kind and gentle, yet firm in his resolve. Nothing will ever go wrong again.”
Hortense choked.
“Very poetic,” agreed Reginald, nodding. “I should love to see it, though it will never happen. The duke died thirty years ago. And I, for one, am grateful. A poetic hero would scoop my dearest Faith into matrimony. A tragedy of the highest order. Soon my epic will sweep England, eclipsing Byron’s mundane verse. Without her by my side, I will never write another, which will prostrate my devoted followers. So you must remain free, my inspiration and devoted love.” He reached for Faith’s hand.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She jerked it out of reach.
“It’s true, and—”
“You’re as barmy as the duchess and show even less sense,” announced Catherine. “Spare us your imagination, boy. What the devil would a duke want with a nobody? She’s not even up to your consequence.”
Faith nearly protested, but they’d had enough strife for one evening. And there was no denying truth, however painful.
“While you are correct that I did not live here in those years”—Catherine continued, glaring at Hortense—“I corresponded with the duchess until her death. Thus I know more about her than schoolroom chits ever could. I also attended Montrose’s christening. Despite his frailty, he was a sunny boy, already smiling though barely a month old. The duke and duchess doted on him – perhaps too much.”
“They were more devoted to themselves,” said Hortense. “Scandalous the way they lived in each other’s pockets. Even I heard the whispers, though I was indeed barely out of the schoolroom.”
“It would have been better had they not,” agreed Catherine. “But they were young.”
“Regular infants.” The colonel turned to Mr. Lascar. “Married the day he turned twenty-one, with her barely seventeen. Can you believe such haste? Claimed they were in love – as if that were possible!”
“But if he’d waited until a more seemly age, there would have been no son at all,” Lascar replied mildly.
“Hardly. Boy that age would live in town. Could have avoided that accident entirely if he hadn’t run back and forth so often.”
“Doubtful,” said Hortense. “Even as a lad, he preferred the country to London.”
“But you have a point.” Catherine nodded to Lascar. “Without Montrose, Chester would have become duke thirty years ago. Then where would we be?”
Esther fell into a new spate of weeping.
“Exactly,” continued Catherine. “Be thankful Richard made a love match, and much as I hate to suggest it, be doubly thankful his wife sent the boy out for fostering. Chester will not make a reputable duke, I fear.”
“Did the duchess know that?” asked Reginald unexpectedly. “Maybe Montrose died here, and she spirited his body away to thwart Chester.”
“Rot,” growled the colonel. “But what can one expect from a poet.”
Catherine glared at both men. “The duchess never met Chester. He was still at school.”
“She would have heard stories, though,” said Hortense unexpectedly. “Chester’s temper was famous even in the nursery. Richard banished him from Westcourt after their father died. I heard it was because Chester tried to kill him.”
“Lies.” Catherine glared. “That rubbish was put about by a footman turned off for disrespect. He retaliated by exaggerating a shoving match between grief-stricken brothers into a murderous plot. No one of breeding listens to such tales.”
Reginald leaned forward. “Maybe the duchess killed Montrose and the maid, then made up that story to explain their absences. Their bodies might be locked in the Tudor wing.”
“That’s even more ridiculous,” snapped Catherine, clearly out of patience. “It is too late to know why Montrose left. He has been gone these many years, one more tragedy to attach to the family’s history.”
Curiosity flashed across Mr. Lascar’s face. “Tragedies?”
It was the colonel who answered. “Family’s been cursed for generations. Males never die peacefully in bed. Ninth duke missing, eighth dead at twenty-four. His youngest brother dead at eight. Chester’s all that’s left of the direct line.”
“Another brother?” asked Mr. Lascar.
“Lord Thomas. Sickly child. Escaped his nurse and came to grief in a fall. Seventh duke drowned a month later. Girls’ father”—he nodded toward Hortense and Esther—“broke his neck when his horse refused a hedge. And Cousin Henry set his bedhangings ablaze. Drunk, of course. Another cousin—”
“We needn’t trot out all the family skeletons, Colonel,” said Catherine firmly.
“I beg your pardon, my lady,” said Mr. Lascar, bowing his head in apology. “I merely wondered if any incidents had affected the house. Fire weakens beams faster than damp. What problems have you noted aside from the roof?”
His adept change of subject stampeded everyone into speech, allowing Faith to relax. At least the bickering was over for now.
Catherine must have been grateful as well, for she let everyone talk, not asserting control of the table until the covers were off and the sweet course laid out. Only then did she add her own observations. “Chester must replace the ghastly paneling in the entrance hall. It does not invoke awe as a ducal seat should.”
“I had noted that,” he agreed. “Marble is a better choice. Does anyone know what the ceiling painting depicts?”
All eyes turned to Catherine, who had grown up at Westcourt.
“Nymphs,” she admitted. “My governess swore it is the Garden of Eden, but I suspect it is a Roman debauch. That would fit my grandfather’s character well enough. He was the last to substantially change the place.”
“I see. New ceiling, then.”
Faith nearly laughed.
“What else?” Mr. Lascar asked.
Lady Catherine launched a lengthy recitation of structural defects and decorating woes that proved she had a firm grasp of the subject. She finished with, “Stand firm on taste, Mr. Lascar. Chester has none. For now, the trustees must approve everything, so let us hope you can finish before Chester receives the title. Once the work is done, he is unlikely to change it, especially if his friends approve the result.”
“Be sure to replace the roof,” ordered the colonel. “There is no hope of fixing it.”
“Of course. Repairs would postpone the inevitable no more than a month or two.” Mr. Lascar nodded toward Hortense to acknowledge her efforts. “The original design is faulty and must be corrected.”
“New design?” Reginald leaned forward, staring at Mr. Lascar in sudden approval. “What wonderful news. Perhaps pinnacles such as the Regent is planning at Brighton. Or a glass dome to protect the courtyard from the weather. Imagine the spectacle that would make! A rival to St. Paul’s, allowing us to enjoy the air in all seasons.” When Catherine thumped her cane, he donned a mischievous grin. “Or perhaps two domes, rising heavenward with the grace of a lady’s bosom, glowing in the sunlight like sleek, virginal offerings to—“
“Enough Reginald,” snapped Faith.
He reddened. “Forgive me, my dear Faith. Not the thing to mention before innocents. You quite put me to the blush. But a glance does that anyway, inciting raptures to flutter in my breast.”
“Eat, Reginald.”
“Yes, Reginald. Eat,” ordered Lady Catherine. “We’ve had enough of your idiocy for one evening. As for style, the best way to handle Chester is to offer only one solution to the water problem.” She glared at Mr. Lascar. “Never give him a choice. And remind him that following your suggestions will elevate his consequence and turn his friends green with envy. He only noticed how shabby things had got because others disparaged the place.”
“Aided by me,” admitted the colonel. “I started that particular conversation. It was time he
faced his responsibilities. That roof will collapse without help.”
John remained silent.
“I would so love Chinese wallpaper in the drawing room,” ventured Miss Esther, dabbing her eyes with her napkin. “The kind with birds in a garden of trees and flowers.”
“Paint is better,” said Lady Catherine firmly. “It would lighten the room. And remove the wall between the library and the tower. The library is too small for any gentleman, let alone a duke, though I doubt a single volume has been added to the collection since my brother’s death forty-one years ago. He would be appalled to see what has become of his home.”
That spawned new suggestions. John let them chatter while he enjoyed a decent piece of cheese. But his mind kept returning to the eighth duchess. Whatever her motives, nothing could excuse abandoning her son. Sending him off with no way to recall him was little better than tossing him into a dustbin. Aside from insulting every man charged with overseeing his upbringing and inheritance, it condemned that inheritance to years of decay. If she were alive, he would throttle her. It was the most revolting display of selfishness he’d ever seen.
The strength of his fury was nearly as aggravating as her behavior, though. His senses had spun out of control the moment he’d passed Westcourt’s gates. Unless he recovered them, he would never convince Lord Chester to adopt his ideas. That job required logic, something in remarkably short supply today.
* * * *
Faith departed the dining room on Catherine’s heels, leaving the gentlemen to their port. Meals were rarely comfortable at Westcourt, but this one had been the most contentious she could recall.
And it wasn’t over.
Catherine motioned the others into the blue parlor, then stepped in front of Faith. “Watch yourself, girl,” she snapped. “I saw you making sheep’s eyes at Mr. Lascar. I won’t have it. You will not shame this house by chasing after a tradesman.”
“You wrong me.” Faith could barely speak through her shock. “I have no interest in the man beyond his ability to fix the roof. Lord Chester ordered me to escort him through the house, but the tour was strictly business.” Liar, screamed her conscience, but she ignored it.
“And did he also order you to hang on his sleeve through dinner?”
“No, but he did request that I answer all of Mr. Lascar’s questions and see that he is treated with the same respect we would show any other professional,” she dared.
Catherine reddened.
“If I overstepped my bounds in trying to distract him from a raging argument, I apologize. I can assure you that flirtation never crossed my mind.”
“I hope you are right. Throwing yourself at a man when everyone knows no one will look twice at you will make you a laughingstock. I won’t have the family name besmirched by such behavior.” She turned away.
Faith clenched her fists.
Catherine paused in the doorway. “Are you coming?”
“Not tonight, my lady. I’ve not yet finished today’s chores.”
Catherine nodded, then closed the door.
Faith sighed. Catherine’s scold didn’t matter. She hadn’t wanted coffee anyway. Reginald would join them within the hour and insist on reciting today’s verses. She was too on edge to tolerate it. But Catherine’s frequent snubs were hard to bear.
Reginald would search for her the moment he discovered her absence, so she must avoid her usual evening haunts. No checking on Mrs. Baines or Cook. No relaxing cup of tea in her room. No going over the accounts in the housekeeper’s office. It would make tomorrow more hectic, but no matter.
Instead, she would spend an hour in the portrait gallery. It wasn’t something anyone would expect, for the pictures badly needed cleaning. Without strong sunlight, it was difficult to see anything. But it would give her time alone with her thoughts.
Or so she thought. Barely ten minutes later, footsteps sounded on the stairs. There was no place to hide.
She was frantically seeking an excuse to escape Reginald when Mr. Lascar entered the gallery. She’d forgot that his room lay just beyond it.
“That was fast.” The words were out before she could stop them, so she mentally shrugged and continued. “I hope Reginald did not drive you away.”
“Not at all. I need to note the problems we discussed at dinner. And I’m not much for port in any case.”
“Ah.” As he stepped closer, her mind turned blank.
John hadn’t expected to run into Miss Harper. He knew he ought to continue to his room, but he couldn’t forget her mortification over the utter lack of manners that had characterized dinner.
And that wasn’t all that bothered her. He’d seen her blanch at the colonel’s recital of untimely deaths. How could they callously remind her that she had lost her entire family? He’d done what he could to deflect conversation to the house, but he was still seething. He ought to slip away so she could recover her composure.
But he couldn’t.
Cursing his weakness, he joined her.
“Why did you not remind them that grief alone explains the duchess’s actions, Miss Harper? You seem to know more about her thoughts than they do.”
“True,” she agreed. “But I am not related to the duke, nor is my breeding high enough that I can discuss his affairs with his family.”
“Yet Lord Chester ordered you to share them with me. So why do you reject their explanations?”
She tilted her head as if listening for footsteps, then led him along the gallery. “No one believes anything they said tonight. Lady Catherine raised the subject merely to stifle Reginald.” She shrugged. “She knows very little about the duchess. While they did correspond – her letters and copies of the duchess’s are in the family archives – the duchess’s tone reflects duty, not pleasure. They are formal and lack both warmth and personal detail. Nothing like her other correspondence.”
“But Lady Catherine presumably corresponded with others who knew the duchess better.”
“I doubt it.” When he raised a brow, she lowered her voice. “Lady Catherine hoped the duchess might restore her relations with a family that had denounced her – she wouldn’t be here at all if not for the trustees. Each of us is here because the trustees accepted a duty to help us when we had nowhere else to go.”
“What did Catherine do to earn the duke’s disapproval?”
“Eloped with a man considerably beneath her. He was the youngest son of an out-of-favor earl, which is why she must use her own title; he had none.”
Not having been around enough aristocrats to absorb the nuances of address, he’d not considered that point.
She continued. “After she discovered that her husband’s claim of undying passion was actually intense fortune-hunting, she adopted an exaggerated hauteur with her in-laws to emphasize her higher breeding. It is now a habit. If you want her favor, treat her with the respect you would accord a duchess.”
“Very well, but I’m curious about this so-called family curse.” He shouldn’t be. Family history had nothing to do with his work. But his libido was grasping every excuse to prolong this conversation.
She was silent so long that he expected her to bid him good evening. Instead, she nodded. “Take everything they say with a large grain of salt. They have never gotten on, and their mutual antagonism is much stronger now that the future is uncertain. Their most provocative comments are designed to annoy – or are the product of imaginative minds. The so-called curse is one of those.”
“The colonel cited plenty of evidence.”
“The world is a dangerous place. It is hardly a surprise that accidents occur. There was a cluster of them about forty years ago, which convinced Reginald that the family was cursed – very poetic to survive such a foe. But since no one before him ever suggested such a thing, and since he blames the duchess for cursing them despite that she didn’t join the family until ten years later…”
“Ah.”
“Exactly. I would not take it seriously.”
He wonde
red why she was so adamant, but he couldn’t press. He was already far too forward. “Should I also ignore the theories about the duke’s disappearance?”
“I do. They are nothing but speculation in any case. And since he is dead, speculation serves no purpose. While studying the family papers might piece together what happened in his infancy, it won’t revive him. Looking to the future is more important.”
She was lying. He didn’t know why – or how he was so certain – but she knew far more about the duke’s departure than she would admit. And it mattered to her. That alone made it matter to him. “You believe that studying the family papers will provide the answer?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I have read enough of them to conclude that the duchess acted from grief – the archives and what passes for a library provided most of my education, as the trustees neglected to send me a governess. But the archives do not explain her decision, and her correspondence conveys only grief.”
Another lie, or a partial one. What wasn’t she saying? He wanted to grab her shoulders and shake the truth loose, but he couldn’t touch her. Need battled custom until he was dizzy with it.
His sudden fury shocked him. He never allowed emotion to cloud logic – a habit learned in childhood. He could still recall his mother chiding him for fighting with the carter’s son.
Emotion dulls your wits, she’d snapped while mopping up a bloody nose. You will never reach your goals unless you keep your mind clear. That takes control. Always think before you act.
But emotion could serve a purpose. Fury kept lust in check, preventing him from sweeping her into a passionate kiss, which would be idiotic. His best course was to retreat before his baser instincts caused trouble.
He turned toward his room, only to discover that he held her hand.
Shocked – and ridiculously delighted – he scrambled to cover his stupidity by executing a formal air kiss just above her fingers as if she were a duchess. Allowing her no chance to react, he excused himself and fled.
“Damn,” he muttered under his breath as he shut his bedroom door. He couldn’t believe how badly he’d lost control. Never had he felt such a powerful urge to drag a woman off to bed. That he would act without conscious knowledge…