And truthfully, she didn’t look as if she was foxed. Her eyes were clear, her bright orange morning dress was perfectly pressed, and her hair was done just as it had always been as of late. So. No drink, then. Which meant that money was the root of her displeasure this morning. He supposed it was better than the alternative.
“And you, Jeremy, are the same wretched disgrace that you have always been,” his mother snapped from where she was lying sprawled and more than a little unlady-like across the divan. That, at least, hadn’t changed. She often adopted that pose these days for dramatic effect when she thought it might help her get what she wanted. “I cannot believe that you are my son. Owning a gaming hell. Cavorting with masked peacocks. Really. I am so ashamed.”
To be fair, her voice this morning lacked true anger, which meant that she was merely reciting words for his benefit. She didn’t mean any of them. Well, she probably meant them, but she wasn’t ready to argue the point – yet. She simply felt he should know of her current displeasures right off. Best to get them out of the way first, and that sort of thing.
It was simply the way she was and he had, after all these years, learned to live with it.
Determined not to rise to the argument she had presented, Jeremy instead sat down in a chair opposite his mother and began to pour the tea as well as any genteel lady could hope to do. It was a skill he had learned out of necessity. After all, if he waited for his mother to pour the tea, it would grow cold in the pot. And quite possibly moldy.
“Higgins informed me that you were upset.” He focused on a spot on the far wall until he could control his quick flash of irritation. “What seems to be the problem, Mother? Perhaps I can help.”
Though a quick look around the drawing room had already given Jeremy a hint as to what the problem likely was. Newly strewn about were all sorts of Egyptian-themed artifacts, everything from an ugly table with crocodile feet and an Eye of Horus carved into its top, to a pair of matching statues of what appeared to be the Egyptian cat goddess, Bastet. There were other gee-gaws lying around as well, none of them particularly attractive or well organized. Unless, perhaps, one was trying to furnish a brothel and failing miserably at the task.
To make matters worse, the Egyptian items clashed horribly with the Greek statues that his mother had purchased only last month when she had redone this entire drawing room in an attempt to keep up with the Duchess of Everly’s new decorating theme. Or at least what the gossip sheets said the duchess’ new decorating scheme looked like.
And those, of course, clashed with the Roman décor that had been in favor the year before that hadn’t been removed but simply pushed aside to make way for the new.
“Madame LaVallier refused me credit yesterday,” the older woman sniffed indignantly, and Jeremy had a fear she was only just warming up to her topic. “Me! The Duchess of Wyncliffe! Can you believe such a thing? I demand that you have her shop closed immediately!”
And there it was. Jeremy’s mother might hate that, through no fault of his own, he was now the head of this family, even though he didn’t bear the ducal title, but she didn’t hate him or his position quite enough to not attempt to beg favors from him. When she desired something, she knew the proper person to ask. She had always been skilled in that fashion.
“I will not, Mother.” Jeremy plunked two cubes of sugar into a cup of tea, doused it liberally with cream and handed it to her. She, in turn, accepted it with a sniff of annoyance, even though it was prepared precisely as she preferred it. “Madame LaVallier was within her right to refuse you credit, for she did so at my direction. Your bill there last month was downright obscene and you have hardly worn a fraction of what you have already ordered.”
Immediately, his mother’s eyes lit with anger. This was more what he had expected. “You would see me in rags, then? Your own mother? Jeremy, how can you be so cruel?” She added a pathetic little sniff at the end for good measure.
It wouldn’t work. None of her theatrics would. They never had. Not with him, anyway.
“Mother, if I allowed it, you would spend the dukedom into bankruptcy.” Jeremy had seen the ledgers both Wilson and Alfred had been keeping during their turns as head of the family, so he knew this was true. “The allowance I give you is more than reasonable.”
For three dowager duchesses, he wanted to add, but didn’t. There was no reason to poke the proverbial bear, after all.
In a flash, his mother was on her feet in a swirl of citrine-hued skirts, yet another new dress that she had likely only worn once. “I need these things, Jeremy! They keep me calm and sane! They keep me from thinking about the drink! You know that!”
He had wondered how long it would take her to pull out that old chestnut and try to use it against him – which it never did. She should know that by now. “That table? That?” He glanced in the direction of the crocodile footed monstrosity. “That bloody thing keeps you from drinking?”
“Well, shopping for it did.” His mother looked away, knowing that she had overplayed her hand. Just a bit. As she usually did.
“And next week when the new month begins, you may shop again,” he reminded her. “But you won’t get a cent more than your allowance, Mother. Remember that.” When she would have spoken, he raised his hand. “And you will not blackmail me into it with threats of drink, for you know that won’t work either. Drink yourself to death, for all I care!”
Except that deep inside, he did care. Very much. Probably more than he should. Though he would never tell her as much. Others might call him a heartless disgrace, but in truth? He really was soft inside.
She scowled at him like a petulant child now and once more, Jeremy prepared himself for his mother’s theatrical hysterics.
“It worked on your brothers!” she screeched loud enough to make the windows rattle in their casings.
“But not on me,” he replied calmly. He was proud of himself for that. “I’m the black sheep. The disgrace. The soulless Devil of Sin. Remember? My brothers are no longer in charge. I am and I will save this family from itself if that is the last thing I do.”
Unsurprisingly, his mother turned away from him, furious. “When Wilson recovers, things will go back to being as they were. He would not be so cruel to me. I am certain.”
Jeremy wanted to tell his mother that Wilson probably wasn’t going to ever recover, but deep inside, she knew that, too. There was no point in reminding her of that reality, other than to hurt her. He wouldn’t do that because, despite everything, he did love his mother. It wasn’t entirely her fault she was this way. His father had, in many ways, created the creature she had become.
Instead, he nodded as if he was agreeing with her – which he wasn’t. It was just easier. “We will see, Mother. We will see. Perhaps one day.” He heard her sniffle again, this time from real tears and he knew she was hurting from thoughts of her first-born son. “I am going to visit Maggie now. I will return on Sunday for dinner, as always.”
Another sniff but she raised her hand in the air and waved him away, signaling the conversation was at an end. He wanted to say more but what would be the point? She wouldn’t listen. Instead, she would retreat to her own fantasy world, one where her oldest son was hale and hearty, her youngest was still alive and her middle son was far, far away where he and his “odd nature” couldn’t trouble her.
This was part of the reason why Jeremy had so craved Dory’s attentions – because she saw him for who and what he was and did not judge him for it. She wanted things from him, mostly the physical, but she had proven time and again that she wouldn’t demand them. She saw him as he was, did not think him “odd” or “peculiar,” and still wanted to be with him.
But now was not the time to think of Dory and her soft lips and supple body. Now was time to visit the other lady of the house he had come to see – his beloved niece, Maggie. His ward. His brother’s child. And the only reason he had ever set foot in this house again after the day he had stormed out after a blistering fight with h
is late father.
Leaving the drawing room where his mother was still lying like a statue across the divan, Jeremy quickly made his way to the nursery where Maggie and her nanny, an older woman named Mrs. Wellsbottom, were waiting for him as they always did this late on Friday mornings. This was the time he most treasured here at his family’s townhome. He just hoped that Mrs. Wellsbottom had a good report for him this week. Last week’s report had been a bit disturbing.
Maggie had spent two days withdrawn into herself. When she had first come into his care, that had been her state almost every day of the week. These days, that occurrence was so rare that when she did retreat into her own world, it worried him.
Still, the nanny had said that children sometimes behaved thus, especially when they were missing their parents. She had also implied the moment would eventually pass. Jeremy hoped that it had. He wasn’t her parent but he was trying hard to be – and sometimes not succeeding very well. Her retreat often felt like another failure on his part. Unfortunately, he also had no one else to talk with about the choices he was making for her.
Maggie’s parents were both gone which was why she was Jeremy’s ward in the first place. A ward he had no idea what to do with, or hadn’t at first. It had taken him bumbling his way through a few very difficult months before he even understood half of what Maggie needed from him. And that had included some very awful, very wretched nannies, many of whom hadn’t even lasted a week.
Now, Jeremy had to admit that Maggie was faring better under Mrs. Wellsbottom than she had under any of the previous nannies that he had employed to care for his niece. The previous two nannies had been significantly younger and had sought the position for only one reason – to become Jeremy’s wife. Neither of them could have given a fig about Maggie or her well-being. That was why Mrs. Wellsbottom was such a God-send.
Not only did she not give two farthings about Jeremy or his reputation, she also had excellent references, having once been nanny to the current Duke of Candlewood, Lord Nicholas Rosemont. A man also known as the Bloody Duke. If Mrs. Wellsbottom could survive serving as that man’s nanny, she could survive any child, no matter how hurt they were.
This time when Jeremy knocked on the door, he waited to be granted entry before he opened the door.
“Come in, my lord!” he heard Mrs. Wellsbottom call out. “We are just having tea.”
Entering the room, Jeremy could see Maggie and her small army of dolls spread out around a child-sized table. Each one had a perfectly poured cup of tea in front of them. It was a an adorably sweet picture of innocence and something in his heart clenched just then, though he could not explain why.
“Unca Jemmy!” The pint-sized, three-year-old bundle of energy that was Margaret Grace Dunn sprang up from the table, knocking over a few cups of tea while earning herself a look of reproach from her nanny, as she launched herself into his arms.
“Maggie! My darling girl!” Jeremy scooped up the child and spun her around in his arms, taking a moment to simply appreciate the child’s innocence and the fact that she was probably the only other female on this planet who did not want something from him beyond a new doll or hair ribbon. Or in Dory’s case, his body. Which he was more than willing to give her.
“Maggie,” Mrs. Wellsbottom cautioned. “What did we talk about earlier?”
“Property,” the child quickly replied then scrunched up her nose. “Pro…pro…”
“Propriety?” Jeremy answered for her, raising an eyebrow in the nanny’s direction.
With a sigh, the older woman rose to her feet. “Precisely.”
Spying his gift on a nearby table, Jeremy put Maggie down and pointed in the general direction of the gift. “Well, then what does propriety say about presents?”
Eyeing the brightly colored box, Maggie clapped her hands together before biting her lip and looking up at him. “It says we hafta ask.”
The child was twitching with excitement but Jeremy had to give her credit for showing restraint. She might not be his daughter, but she had clearly inherited the infamous Dunn iron-will and talent for self-restraint.
“Very good.” He nodded at the present. “You may open your present, Maggie.”
Maggie did her best not to shriek as she streaked across the room and grabbed the box, ripping away the paper inside as soon as she yanked off the lid. “Oh, thank you, Unca Jemmy!” she cried as she hugged the new doll to her chest. “Thank you! She needs a tea party seat now!”
As Maggie began busily rearranging her dolls to make room for her new one, chattering away to herself as she did so, Jeremy pulled Mrs. Wellsbottom aside. “How did she fare this week?”
“Better than last. Not as quiet in the evenings though she still has trouble sitting for the French lessons your mother insists that she take. Though she has not shown any more signs of withdrawal, which is a good thing. She is still a child yet, my lord, so she needs to play, but…”
“But she also needs a mother,” Jeremy finished for him. “I know that. I had hoped that my own mother might fill that role.”
“Your mother has all the warmth of an eel,” Mrs. Wellsbottom replied, not looking in the least bit sorry she had said it. “I am not certain how you turned out as well as you did.”
Sighing, Jeremy ran a hand through his hair. “In truth? Neither am I.” At the advanced age of thirty, Jeremy still didn’t have a clue how he had not just survived but thrived when his other siblings had not. “Still, your point is taken. I just wish I knew what to do about the situation.”
“You could marry,” the nanny suggested casually, as if that was the most natural suggestion in the world. “She is your ward and, once you have a wife, Maggie could live with you. There would be no more need for your mother.”
From anyone else, that suggestion would have annoyed and angered Jeremy, but not from this woman. She might not be of his social class, but she was more than a servant. She had guided the man who would eventually become the Bloody Duke into adulthood without the man cutting her to ribbons. Therefore, if she had something to say, Jeremy would listen. He would not be so arrogant as to assume that just because he was a lord, he knew better. He didn’t. Not even by half.
“I could, I suppose. If there was a woman that would have me. I am hardly the sort of gentleman matchmaking mamas dream of for their daughters. I might be a lord, but in their eyes, I am still a reprobate.” It was a truth Jeremy knew all too well.
“Or if you could find a woman that is your match,” Mrs. Wellsbottom countered as she began sopping up the spilled tea. “One of these simpering misses in their pastel gowns and virginal whites are not for you.” She waved a dismissing hand in the air with a snort of disgust. “You need someone bolder, like my Nicholas found in his Eliza. Someone with spirit.”
Jeremy couldn’t disagree with the woman there. “Maybe. Eventually. But that is a matter for another time. For now, is there anything else I need to know about Maggie?” Once more, he looked at his ward and felt a surge of warmth in his chest.
For a brief moment, the older woman prevaricated. Then, as if coming to a decision, she pressed on. “She has been asking about her mother quite a bit. She knows her father is dead, but is uncertain about her mother.”
“As am I.” That was yet another problem for which Jeremy did not have an answer. “I wish that I did, though from what reports I can gather, Miss Baudin did, in fact, die in childbirth. Not with Maggie but with another child. A son for her and my brother it would seem. Too short of a time between births, as best I can tell.”
“What should I tell Maggie if she asks again?” The woman looked to him, obviously expected an answer but Jeremy didn’t have one to give.
From the moment he returned to England, Alfred had always hinted that Maggie’s mother, a French actress, was dead, and based on what Jeremy’s investigators had been able to discover recently, she probably was. That tale wasn’t just an excuse for not marrying the chit or a delusion of his brother’s fevered brain. It had been
rather difficult for Jeremy to question his younger brother when Alfred had shown up on Jeremy’s doorstep that night a year and a half ago, dirty, disheveled, and dying of the pox while dragging poor Maggie and their scant belongings behind him.
Jeremy had, of course, taken both of them directly to his mother’s house, despite Alfred’s protests. He might have been able to care for Alfred on his own, even though he was in the process of getting Dionysus up and running. But as a bachelor? Jeremy would never have been able to care for Maggie in his own home and he refused to pawn her off on some distant aunt that no one had seen in a decade or more. Should one have even existed and Jeremy wasn’t certain one did.
So, the decision had been made to ensconce both Alfred and his daughter at Wyncliffe House with their mother. Well, Jeremy had made the decision. As the acting head of the family, he hadn’t really cared what anyone else had thought. He had only cared about his brother and the niece he hadn’t known existed.
For a time, there had been hope that Alfred might recover, even though all of the physicians Jeremy brought in swore he had the French pox while their mother vehemently disagreed and insisted it was merely a chill that had affected his brain. However, when it became clear that Alfred was most likely going to die, Jeremy had brought in his solicitor and, under his guidance, had made Maggie his ward. At the time, Alfred had kept insisting that her mother was dead and the investigators Jeremy had subsequently hired had not found any proof to the contrary.
So, was it now time to put the matter to rest once and for all? Tell Maggie the truth when he could be the one to do it and break the news to her gently? Jeremy didn’t know. Just then, he didn’t know much of anything about anything. Well, other than how much he desired Dory. That was something he did know.
And she was coming to him tonight. He hoped. And at this point, until she walked through that door, hope was all he had. In many ways, it was all he ever had.
“If she asks again, tell her that I will speak to her about her mother soon.” At this point, it was all he could think of to say. “Or, at the very least, put her off as long as you can. In the meantime, I will have my men prepare their final report on the matter and we’ll consider the case closed.”
His Temporary Mistress Page 8