The Duchess's Diary

by Allison Lane

  “Heirs, certainly. But Lord Chester is only the heir presumptive. He was well past forty before anyone suspected he might be more and well past fifty before such suspicions seemed true. Some men cannot think beyond their own pleasure no matter what convention demands.” He shrugged. “But perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps Chester has some reason beyond vengeance for allowing Westcourt to deteriorate.” He bit into his last slice of toast.

  Shaking his head, John changed the subject. “What can you tell me about the portico?”

  “Local chap built it, according to Miss Harper. Long dead, of course. Put up in 1730. Never liked it much myself.”

  “It doesn’t enhance the house,” agreed John. “And its foundation is crumbling.”

  * * * *

  Faith had no time for a leisurely breakfast – or so she told herself. Despite the presence of Chester and Mr. Lascar, which meant extra rooms to serve, she had to air the east wing. That was reason enough to keep her belowstairs. It had nothing to do with blue eyes or muscular physiques, though both had crept into her dreams, producing a very unsettled night.

  Her stomach rolled twice as she stared at the list she was making. Her fingers were nothing like Mr. Lascar’s elegantly tapered ones. His turned the prosaic chore of writing into a sensual exercise, something she’d not thought herself susceptible to until yesterday.

  How wrong she’d been…

  She’d watched men caress women before, even listened to the sounds they made while doing so, but it had never evoked shivers of anticipation. Now wondering how such a touch might feel turned her mouth dry.

  She wrenched her thoughts back to the larder. Her immediate problem was food. Cook had forgotten to order supplies again.

  “Sorry, Miss Harper,” said Polly, finishing her search for the spare salt box. “I shoulda checked when we heard Mr. Lascar was comin’, but there was so much else to do—”

  “It is not your fault, Polly. You do more than your share already. As soon as we finish this list, I will deliver it to the village.”

  “Of course, miss, but—”

  “Breakfast was delicious, as usual,” Faith continued. She could not promote Polly without turning off Mrs. Foley, who had worked fifty-four years at Westcourt, but she was lavish with praise and whatever bonuses she could wring from the budget.

  Polly nodded. “I should like to have done kidneys, but there wasn’t time.”

  “Ham was fine. Have you the makings of scones? Mr. Lascar should have tea before meeting Lord Chester this afternoon.”

  “I should say so!” She reddened, but offered no apology. “You know my thoughts on that head, miss. I won’t stay once he’s the duke.”

  “I know.” Faith blinked away incipient tears. Polly didn’t understand that none of them would stay.

  “How is Mrs. Baines today?” asked Polly, reverting to her usual demeanor.

  “Worse. She did not recognize me.” She couldn’t tell if the lapse was a temporary setback or a further slide into dementia. If the latter, then Faith would have something else to hide. Once Chester realized now ill Mrs. Baines was – or Cook, for that matter – he would toss them out in a trice. He was already irritated that rheumatism made Baines slow. If he learned that Ned shouldered half of Baines’s duties…

  Ned rapped hesitantly on the door. “Miss Harper?”

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Lascar wants the key to the Tudor wing, but it isn’t on the hook.”

  She nearly groaned. She could not in good conscience let him enter that wing. The floor was so rotten it would collapse, breaking his leg if not his neck. He could recommend that it be torn down without actually walking through it. But that wasn’t a message she could send with a servant. “Where is he?”

  “I left him in the coal shed.”

  Leaving Polly to complete the shopping list, she headed outside. She found Mr. Lascar in the doorway of the carpenter’s shed, shaking his head.

  “More leaks?” she asked wearily, trying to ignore how his dark hair glinted in the shafts of sunlight that were breaking through the overcast.

  “No, but these tools are rusting. Where is your carpenter?”

  “He died four years ago.” She shrugged to hide embarrassment. It wasn’t her fault the estate was neglected.

  “Lord Chester hasn’t found a replacement?”

  “I doubt he’s looked. He sees no need to make a pack of leeches more comfortable.” She followed him inside. “Hortense does what she can, but too many jobs are beyond her.”

  “Which outbuildings have problems?”

  “The dairy. The pig sty. The brewhouse. Maybe others.”

  “I’ll start with the dairy once I finish the house. Did you bring the key to the Tudor wing?”

  “Baines mislaid it. I’ve no idea when or how – it’s not been opened for years. He’s looking for it now.” A lie, but Baines was too forgetful to expose her should Mr. Lascar mention it. She’d hidden the key a year earlier when Mrs. Baines had tried to clean the Tudor wing, thinking the seventh duke was planning a party. That was when Faith had assumed full control of the house.

  Mr. Lascar nodded.

  “We can check the dairy now,” she said, heading for the clump of trees that shaded the building. The morning milking was done, so it would be empty. “Part of the river diverts through there to keep the temperature down. But dampness is making the timbers soft.”

  “Hardly a surprise.”

  Chapter Six

  How can I love Richard more today than even yesterday? I did not know a heart could hold so much. One must pity those who don’t believe in love. Without it, life is not worth living…

  Duchess of Westfield, June 1774

  John almost offered Miss Harper his arm, but caught himself in time. Touching her was too dangerous. Not that following her was much safer. Her swaying hips set his juices flowing.

  He should have asked Baines for the key himself instead of sending a footman for it. Now he must endure the agony of another afternoon with a lady he couldn’t have.

  To deflect his thoughts, he studied the grounds. Even in this service area, Capability Brown had added charm. Walls trapped heat in the kitchen garden even as they anchored a dozen espaliered fruit trees. A statue of romping puppies rose above a fountain in the garden’s center. It had to have been made for this spot. He’d never seen anything like it.

  The various offices were in better shape than he’d expected. Coal shed, wood shed, carpenter’s shop, chicken coop. All were in acceptable condition and positioned for efficient use, screened from the drive by a privet hedge. He hoped the rest of the offices were as good, for it would let him concentrate on the house.

  The dairy was a charming stone structure surrounded by trees, as was usual for places that must remain cool. A stone aqueduct led water from the river into grooves cut in stone tables that acted as reservoirs of cold, keeping the building cool even on hot days. Covered pails stood in the corner next to the churn. Butter, cream, and cheese awaited transfer to the house. More cheese aged on racks against the far wall.

  John dragged the churning stool into the center of the room, then mounted it so he could test the roof beams with his penknife. The first was fine, but the second…

  “Beetles,” he announced. “This beam need replacing.”

  “So I feared.”

  He made a note, then moved the stool to the next pair of beams.

  “Do be careful,” Miss Harper admonished.

  “You are the one who should beware,” he countered when his knife loosed a cloud of dust. “Stand back to protect your eyes.”

  She moved half a step.

  Before John could repeat the admonition, the stool tilted.

  Miss Harper screamed as she leaped forward to catch him.

  Cursing, he threw his arm across the beam. Didn’t she understand what would happen if he landed on her? His hand hit an unnoticed crock atop the beam. He tried to catch it—

  Thud! It knocked her flat.


  “Miss Harper!” He swung down beside her. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course.” She struggled to her feet.

  Furious, he tugged off her shawl so he could see her shoulder. The skin was red and angry, but unbroken. A brief probe convinced him the bone was intact, but even that little contact burned his hands, sending sizzling heat straight to his groin. To keep from pulling her into his arms, he gave rein to his temper.

  “Next time I tell you move, do it!” he snapped. “You are lucky. A few inches to the left, and you might be dead.”

  “You exaggerate.”

  “No, I don’t.” He collected the shards, fitting them together to demonstrate the crock’s size. “I saw a smaller pot than this kill a man last year.”

  She shuddered. “Then I am indeed lucky. As are you. If you had fallen, you would have smashed your head on the corner of the table.”

  “I am not so clumsy,” he protested.

  “Nor are you thinking. You are far heavier than the dairy maid. You should have checked the stool for sturdiness. You know everything at Westcourt is falling apart.”

  He held his breath until his temper cooled. “My apologies, Miss Harper. I will repair the stool before dinner.” He turned away so he could no longer see her damaged shoulder. The urge to caress it was too strong. All he could do was pray that it was shock that made his heart race and not, as he feared, that he’d fallen top over tail in love with her.

  It was impossible, he insisted as he vaulted onto the table to check the last two beams. He’d known her barely a day. No one could fall in love so quickly.

  Yet he’d known the house barely a day as well.

  Stupid! Very stupid. They had no future. Mésalliances never worked. One of his earliest commissions had been for a mill owner whose vast wealth had bought an impoverished lord for his daughter ten years earlier. By the time John met her, she’d been virtually alone, shunned by society for her low breeding, despised by her peers for raising her eyes above her station, and barely tolerated by a husband who found money a poor exchange for tainting his line.

  The butcher in his old neighborhood had suffered a similar fate, though the man had wed for love. But his wife was the bastard daughter of an actress, which made her unacceptable to his family and friends. John’s mother had been kind to the woman, but she’d warned John often of the perils inherent in such unions. Save yourself grief, John, she’d told him on his twelfth birthday. Wait until you are firmly established in the world before seeking a suitable wife.

  Well, he was established. But even a seat at the Office of Works wouldn’t raise him to Miss Harper’s level. So loving her was not suitable.

  It’s only lust, he insisted, furious that he was losing control of his senses. If he couldn’t master his libido, he must leave Westcourt and risk Lord Chester’s retaliation.

  “Are you finished?” she asked as he jumped lightly to the floor. At least she wasn’t flying into a tizzy because he’d touched her. His fingers still burned.

  “Yes. Where to next?” He added another note to his book, including an unnecessary sketch to keep his hands occupied.

  “Pig sty. One of the grooms ties the fence together whenever a rail falls off, but he doesn’t know what he’s doing – his expertise is with horses. I think the posts are rotten.”

  “Show me.” The words were out before he could stop them. It was dangerous to remain in her company, and she risked injury by staying with him. Not only was the estate falling to bits, but he had to crawl into its worst places if he was to identify all of its problems.

  * * * *

  An hour later, Faith gave up trying to explain Mr. Lascar’s anger. Fury radiated from him waves, making it difficult to breathe. Yet it wasn’t aimed at her. Was Westcourt so dilapidated that it was outside his experience? It didn’t seem likely. He’d not been furious yesterday, even when he’d found the tower room afloat. Surely he couldn’t still be upset over that pot.

  Her own problem was that she couldn’t think. Her mind had shut down the moment he’d touched her bruise.

  Another blush made her glad he remained behind her. She should have avoided him today even if that meant asking Ned to lie for her. Yesterday’s attraction remained, stronger than ever. Not only did he refrain from blaming her for Westcourt’s problems – a nice change from Chester – but he’d done his best to distract her from the pain throbbing in her shoulder.

  “I saw a print last week that showed the Regent dining in a sty,” he’d said as they’d watched two hogs nose through slops. She’d been groping for a response when an odd gleam lit his eye. “I should lodge a protest with the artist. The depiction insults pigs. They are far more slender.”

  She’d laughed out loud, something that would draw frowns from Catherine if she heard.

  It hadn’t been his only attempt to amuse her. The line of ants marching relentlessly up the stable wall had reminded him of London, where drivers clogged every street, each bent on moving as fast as possible. Faith knew how terrifying that traffic could be, for she’d spent a fortnight there while the trustees decided what to do with her.

  All in all, it had been an enjoyable day and a respite from her usual chores. But now she must return to work. Polly would have long since finished the shopping list. If Faith didn’t hurry, dinner would be late.

  They were approaching the terrace steps when Mr. Lascar again paused.

  “This retaining wall is cracked,” he announced, running his hand over the stone.

  “Everything at Westcourt is cracked,” she muttered, turning back to the wall. The cracks had first appeared six years earlier. Now the bracing the carpenter had installed was rotting. One board had already fallen. Another hung loose. When she shoved it back in place, it fell off, exposing—

  A dozen bees lurched groggily into the air.

  “Damnation!” Mr. Lascar grabbed her arm, dragging her toward the house so fast her feet barely touched the ground. “Don’t you ever think?”

  A bee landed on her shawl.

  “Hurry,” he gasped, fumbling with the latch while she brushed the bee aside.

  “Relax.” The cool air slowed bees. They were rarely aggressive anyway. She often saw them in the garden.

  But these were angry. One landed on her arm.

  Mr. Lascar lunged—

  Too late. It had already struck.

  “Inside.” Panic threaded his voice as he shoved her through the door and against the wall. “It got you, devil take it. It got you.” He jerked the stinger out, then nicked the skin with his penknife, squeezing until blood flowed. “My fault. I should have noticed—”

  “I’m fine.”

  But he didn’t hear her. “Baines!” he shouted. “Bring a poultice. Quickly!” He squeezed again. “Can you breathe?”

  “Of course I can breathe!” She tried to tug her arm away, for his fingers hurt more than the sting.

  “There’s no of course about it. Baines!” Panic flared in his eyes. And heat…

  Hortense rushed from the entrance hall, followed by Reginald.

  “Take your filthy hands off her.” Reginald slammed Mr. Lascar into the door. “How dare you touch a lady?”

  “Stop this at once,” Faith ordered, sidestepping Reginald’s grab. “There is a bee hive on the terrace. He was removing the sting from my arm.”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  “Go away,” she snapped. Reginald’s dismissal stood at sharp odds with Mr. Lascar’s concern. “You are no earthly good for anything.” She pulled out a handkerchief to mop up the blood.

  “Where on the terrace?” demanded Hortense as Mr. Lascar shook out Faith’s shawl, checking for more bees.

  “Behind the bracing by the steps.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” She turned to the door

  “Don’t risk a sting,” begged Mr. Lascar. “Can’t one of the grooms deal with it?”

  “They are busy. Come, Reginald. You can help me.”

  “Touch poison? Never!”
He paled.

  “Then go to your room.” Faith shook out her skirts.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Mr. Lascar’s hands shook as if he was torn between needing to verify her condition and keeping a respectful distance.

  “Yes,” she repeated. “It must be a recent hive. There weren’t very many, and it’s too cool for them to move quickly in any case.”

  “You were stung!” White ringed the blue in his eyes. Caring won, for he turned her to face him. “Can you see all right? Any shaking? Pain?”

  “For heaven’s sake, it’s only a sting, and a small one at that.” Exasperation was the only way to keep from throwing herself into those caring arms. When Reginald raised his fists, she stepped between them.

  “Stings can kill!” Mr. Lascar glared. “I nearly died of one. Everyone agreed that if I was stung again, I would die. My throat swelled so badly, I couldn’t breathe.”

  She froze. What a waste that would have been. “But most people do not suffer unduly,” she reminded him, keeping her voice calm. “I have been stung three times with no effect beyond some itching.”

  “She be right, sir,” said Baines, finally arriving. “I know some as must be careful like. Lad in the village died when I were a boy. Rumor had it he weren’t the first. But not Miss Harper.”

  “I will be fine,” she assured him again. “But what of you?”

  “I felt nothing. I have learned to move very quickly when bees are in the vicinity. My father was the same – or so my mother reported.” He shook his head. “He died when I was five.”

  “Stung?”

  “Perhaps. His regiment was in India. We were told he died honorably in battle, but that’s what they always say.” He exhaled long and deep. “Pardon me for overreacting, Miss Harper.”

  “One cannot call it overreacting when the situation was deadly for you,” she replied. “Stay indoors for the rest of the day. It may take some time for Hortense to find all the bees, and they could remain belligerent in the meantime.”