She was asking a great deal of the maid. Not only to accompany Nora to London . . . but to not alert anyone in the house that they were leaving. It was not a small thing to ask—especially considering Warrington was her employer, and Bea was not of a reticent nature. It seemed much too likely the maid would reveal her plan to Marian.
Then Nora’s journey would be over before it had ever even started.
Even if Bea agreed, Marian would discover her absence—their absences—and soon. If Nora went alone, Warrington would be after her like an outraged papa.
Nora might have half a day head start at the most before the alert went up that she was gone. And yet Marian would worry less if she knew Bea was with her. There was that.
Taking Bea was her only hope. Plain and simple.
A nicely worded letter pleading her cause and Bea as a proper companion might save her. Marian might not send Warrington after her.
Ultimately, it was this that had her confiding her plans to Bea.
“London?” Bea nodded jerkily as Nora laid forth the details. “Truly? Yes, yes. yes. I will happily accompany you.”
Apparently she did not require much convincing.
The maid was so enthused at the prospect of a trip to London and having something to do with her time (finally) that she heartily agreed—with the promise that Nora would prevent her from getting sacked when their adventure was discovered.
“You won’t be sacked.” Nora hoped she was not mistaken in issuing forth such a promise and it was one she could honor. Certainly Warrington wouldn’t punish Bea for traveling with Nora. “Once we reach London, I’ll send them a letter and let them know I’m the guest of the Duke and Duchess of Birchwood. They’ll be mollified and will dare not come for fear of creating a stir. It’s only a scandal if they behave as though I stole away in the night without their permission . . . and reveal that to all and sundry.”
At least she hoped so. On all counts. She hoped Sinclair would not toss her out on her ear. She hoped she would be welcomed as a guest of the Duke and Duchess of Birchwood. She hoped her family would not come in hot pursuit of her.
So much of this depended on Sinclair and how he reacted to her arrival.
Bea made quick work of packing Nora’s luggage and then disappearing to pack her own things.
They left before dawn, creeping out of the house like thieves in the dark in time to catch the morning train. Bea arranged for her cousin, Bobby, one of the stable lads, to take them to the station, and that was some comfort to Nora. Who was more trustworthy than family?
Nora tried to contain her excitement as they settled into their seats. She stared out the window up until the very last moment, as though expecting to see a member of her family charging after them on the platform. No one came.
Then they were on their way.
Colonel Sinclair—no, Mr. Sinclair—would soon see that whilst she was not Dr. Langley, she was very much his daughter in every sense and a fine and capable healer.
She’d see the duchess through whatever ailed her and he could choke on all his doubts about her.
She stared out the window at the passing countryside, anticipation zipping through her. In a few hours, she would be in London.
It turned out locating the residence of the Duke and Duchess of Birchwood was not such a difficult task. Birchwood was not your average duke, it seemed—if dukes could be called average. Nora supposed her sister marrying a duke had somewhat normalized them in her mind. After lengthy exposure to Warrington, she had removed dukes from their category of mythical figures where she had always allocated them.
It was becoming apparent, however, as she sat on the edge of a brocade settee in the grand Birchwood drawing room under the watchful eye of stone-faced footmen, that the Duke of Birchwood was cut from a different cloth. She’d always thought her brother-in-law maintained a preposterous number of servants, but now, after seeing the amount of staff Birchwood kept on hand, she changed her mind.
As she waited, the moments ticking by, she was reminded that the Duke of Birchwood was not Warrington and she placed dukes back in their previous category alongside mythical figures.
She eyed the elegantly appointed room.
It was not that Haverston Hall was not an impressive residence, only that this place, this place where Sinclair lived and would one day be master, seemed much more palatial.
A great many cherubs stared at her from the elaborate gilt molding. And not only there. They were in the many paintings and the vases and the bric-a-bracs sitting on every surface. They were an army and she was surrounded. She could not recall a single cherub at Haverston Hall. Indeed, that place had been austere upon their arrival, virtually devoid of everything except basic furnishings. Marian had been gradually filling the place, making it more of a home . . . but not one with ornate cherubs.
Something existed in the air of Birchwood House. An elusive quality that she felt in the very atmosphere and it had naught to do with the garish cherubs. She attributed the distinction to Warrington, or rather Birchwood.
Whereas Birchwood was an esteemed member of the House, prominent among his peers—her brother-in-law preferred country life and scarcely ever stepped foot in Town.
She smoothed a hand over her skirts, aware of the eyes of the stoic footmen on her. Haverston Hall had its footmen, but she did not recall them standing about like statues, staring straight ahead with eerie intensity.
She cleared her throat. Her dress was a little wrinkled from the long train ride, and she felt unnaturally self-conscious. She wished she’d been able to change her garments and freshen up. She resisted the impulse to touch her hair. She willed herself to at least project an air of confidence.
She was not alone in the room. However much the footmen were trained to appear oblivious to her, she was not oblivious to them.
Nora forced her hands to stillness so she did not appear fidgety and nervous—even if she happened to be. She usually gave very little thought to her appearance, but being in this room made her feel a little out of sorts.
Bea had been escorted somewhere else in the house whilst Nora had been escorted to the drawing room to wait for the arrival of Sinclair. She did not think she would miss the chatter of her maid—it had filled her ears on the long train ride—but she did.
Suddenly Sinclair was there, filling the threshold, larger than even memory served.
His chest lifted on a great inhalation at the sight of her.
She straightened, angling herself to face him better and pasting on a smile. She was determined to begin this exchange on a cheerful note—better than the way they had ended things in Brambledon.
It was not long ago, days only, that they had stood face-to-face, but he seemed more than she remembered and she had made quite a thorough study of him at the pond. He’d given her so much to observe, after all. The long line of him. The broad shoulders. That taut, mesmerizing backside.
Today though, standing here in his domain, he was more mature, more imposing. His unsmiling face sterner.
His dark-eyed scrutiny made her fingers clench around her thighs as though she suddenly needed to hold on to something. She had never found herself the subject of such intense examination.
“Malone? Jones?” His eyes remained fixed on her as he spoke to the footmen. “Could you leave us, please?”
The two footmen left without a word, nodding deferentially to Sinclair as they passed—the man who would one day be master of this place and all within it.
Sinclair closed the drawing room doors after them and advanced into the room. “What are you doing here, Miss Langley?”
She rose from the settee, not appreciating the disadvantage of sitting whilst he stood. She’d get a crick in her neck looking up at him. Circling the settee, she smoothed her hands along the back. “You came to me for help, so I am here to help.”
“I left you in Brambledon,” he corrected and from his hard tone it was clear that he had expected her to stay there. The man had much
to learn about her if he thought her that easy to chase away.
“Well,” she said, fighting to keep her tone friendly. “I am not in Brambledon.”
“I see that. You followed me.”
She inclined her head. “Not immediately, but yes. I followed you here. As I said . . . to help.”
“And as I said before, I have little faith that you can help—”
“But you do have a little faith,” she pointed out playfully.
He scowled.
She took advantage of the pause and continued, “Is the duchess still ill?”
He crossed his arms. “She has her . . . spells. They come and go.”
“So I’m to assume she is still ill then.” His frown was answer enough. “It would be remiss of you not to explore every option for her.”
“And I’m to assume you consider yourself just such an option?”
“Actually I consider myself your solution, but you should at the very least consider me an option. Or perhaps your devotion to the duchess doesn’t run as deeply as you claim.” She arched an eyebrow.
He did not care for that suggestion. “You go too far—”
“You vowed to find the duchess some relief from her condition. That being the case, you should not cast out someone capable and willing to help. That seems shortsighted, does it not?”
“Are you capable, Miss Langley?” He angled his head. “Truly? The only thing I have to recommend you is your history of deceit.”
Ugh. He was going to hold that over her head forever. “If you had done research you would know of my capabilities, sir. Ask anyone in Brambledon.”
“I’m not presently in Brambledon, am I?”
“You were there. You didn’t even inquire about my credentials when you were there. I can offer you countless testimonials.”
“Admittedly, after discovering I had been duped for years, I was in no mood—”
“So this is about your injured pride then? I thought you were concerned with the well-being of the Duchess of Birchwood. I did not realize this was about you.”
He angled his head sharply, his eyes narrowing on her. “Do you think insulting me a way to endear you to me?”
She shrugged. “Again, this is not about me or you . . . or how you feel about me. It’s about a very ill woman.”
His lips compressed and she knew she had either made her point—or just gotten herself tossed out of there.
She decided to take a page from her sisters and adopt a conciliatory manner in case she had pushed him too far. “Please, Mr. Sinclair. Let me try. What do you have to lose?”
He stared at her a long time with those deep eyes of his, so dark, so impenetrable. “What do you want out of this?”
She straightened her spine. “What makes you think I want anything?”
“What. Do. You. Want?”
Your respect. She wanted him to look at her and admit he was wrong, that she was as capable as any doctor. Oh, and she wanted to know her reputation as a healer was safe. Healing the duchess was also another factor. Marian was right. She loved nothing more than solving a mystery diagnosis.
“I’d like you to promise not to expose me . . . Don’t write to Durham and any of the others.”
“Am I to let you continue your lying then?”
“No. I’ll write of my father’s passing and cease giving out advice in his name.” She stared at him hopefully.
He was silent for a moment, considering her with narrowed eyes.
She continued, “Once you see that I can help her, you will realize I know what I’m about. Allow me to treat her.” She nodded encouragingly. It was perfectly reasonable. “And I should stay here, of course, as yours and the Birchwoods’ guest.”
He sputtered. “Have you here? Under this roof?”
“Where else shall I stay in London? I don’t know anyone.”
“Do you commonly invite yourself to people’s homes?”
She frowned. “The only way my sister and Warrington will tolerate me staying in London is to stay here . . . as a guest of the Birchwoods. Anything else would be unseemly.”
“Tolerate? Did they not give you leave to venture here?”
Some of her poise evaporated at the question. “Er, no. I slipped away with my maid before they woke.”
“Without their permission?”
His question fired her indignation anew. “I’m an adult. I don’t require permission.”
“And yet you’re concerned at what they may or may not tolerate.”
She glared at him, not liking her own words tossed back at her. “I said I can help her, and so I can.” She propped a hand on her hip. “Will you at least show me to her?”
“I . . . ah. I do not know. Her husband is very protective. I do not think he will allow you near her. She’s under the care of a most prominent and capable physician. I believe he and the duke attended Eton together.”
“Has she improved yet under this most prominent and capable physician?”
“As I said. She has spells.”
“So not yet then. It seems to me her physician must not be so very capable if she is still ill.”
“You are full of self-confidence, aren’t you?”
She shrugged. “Competence begets confidence. Now. Can you be more specific? What are these spells like?”
He looked at her long and hard and for a moment she thought his resolve was cracking and he was truly considering her offer. Then, he shook his head. “I’m sorry. You’ve come all this way for naught. The duke will not allow you to see his—”
“Sinclair? Is that you in there? It’s my understanding that we have a guest.” An older gentleman entered the room. He was past middling age but in possession of a full head of glorious white hair. His gaze landed on her. “Ah, you must be the visitor mentioned. Sinclair? Aren’t you going to introduce me to the young lady?”
Sinclair looked pained. “Indeed, Your Grace. Allow me to introduce you to Miss Nora Langley. Miss Langley, may I present the Duke of Birchwood.”
She executed a curtsey. She’d had some practice since becoming Warrington’s sister-in-law. She had seen the courtesy performed countless times.
“A pleasure, Miss Langley. Will you be staying for luncheon? We are to sit down to eat soon. The duchess is having one of her better days. She has roused from her nap and will soon join us.”
“That won’t be necessary. Miss Langley was just—”
“I should enjoy that. Thank you, Your Grace. I am quite famished from my journey here.”
“Journey? And where have you come from, Miss Langley?”
“Brambledon, Your Grace.”
“And do you reside there with your . . . family, Miss Langley?” He looked rather pointedly between Sinclair and Nora, and she realized he was inviting an explanation to be given for her appearance in his drawing room and, more specifically, her connection to Sinclair. He wanted her credentials, in short, and to know if her pedigree warranted her a place in his drawing room.
“Yes.” She might as well give him what he was seeking, and hoped it achieved the desired result, which was to secure an invitation to stay. “I live in Brambledon with my sister and her husband . . . the Duke of Warrington, Your Grace.”
His eyes lit up. “Ah. Warrington? I’ve heard of the man, I believe.” He nodded slowly. “Never met him though. Bit of a recluse, is he not?”
“Yes. Warrington does prefer country living,” she allowed.
“Never been much our custom. The duchess has always enjoyed Town.” He chortled. “Too many bees in the country, she always says.” His smile slipped. He frowned then, presumably at the mention of his wife, as though the reminder of her troubled him greatly. Her mystery illness, no doubt.
The reason she was here. To prove herself.
The duke blinked and his somber mask slipped away. “Well, you must come dine with us and tell me all about yourself and what brings you to Town and how it is this village of Brambledon has so enamored Warrington that he es
chews all of Society.”
“I believe my sister is the reason behind that. Warrington is quite enamored of her. They’re awaiting the arrival of their first child and quite content to stay where they are.”
“Ah. As should be the case.” He released a heavy breath. “A child . . . such a blessing. Such a gift.” The somber look returned to his face and Nora was reminded that he had lost his sons, thus making Sinclair his heir and bringing him home.
Home to her.
No, not to her. Simply . . . home. Yes, he ended up on her doorstep as a result of returning home, but he had not come home for her or because of her. She was an incidental.
The duke cleared his throat as though a lump was stuck there.
Sinclair gave her a look of rebuke. An awkward silence swelled among them.
She returned Sinclair’s look with a helpless one of her own. It had not been her intention to bring forth painful memories. She had mentioned the arrival of her sister’s and Warrington’s child only as a topic of conversation.
She opened and closed her mouth several times, searching for something to say to alleviate the sudden somber mood.
“Yes, well, I am what brought Miss Langley to London.”
The duke’s bowed head snapped up, his eyes bright beneath his stark white eyebrows. “What’s that?”
She gazed at Sinclair, equally at a loss. “Yes . . . what . . .”
Her words went unheard, or at least unacknowledged. Sinclair continued, “I’ve sent for Miss Langley and invited her to stay with us. She’s the daughter of the late Dr. Langley, who was a very talented physician. She trained at his feet and is an excellent healer in her own right with a particular forte for pain mitigation.”
“Oh.” The duke turned back to look at her, assessing her anew.
She valiantly tried to show no reaction to the praise . . . to not flinch or swallow or blink like an owl in astonishment that he should laud her in such a way.
“Well, that is . . . something.” The duke nodded slowly, uncertainly, clearly absorbing that she, a woman, no doubt a girl in his estimation, should possess any medical skill at all. She was well versed in such disbelief, even though the residents of Brambledon were largely accepting. There were always those few. A man of the house too resistant and guarded to allow her to treat his womenfolk.
The Duke Effect EPB Page 7