When a Duchess Says I Do

by Grace Burrowes

  “We will dispatch minions of our own to trail Parker’s coach,” Duncan said. “Quinn, who among your current coterie do you recommend for that task?”

  “Ned,” the duke said, naming a boy who’d graduated from tiger to groom. “He knows how to stay out of sight, and he’s not in livery. You refuse to acknowledge that Matilda went willingly. Nobody reported any resistance on her part, not even when we questioned your poachers separately.”

  “And who shall accompany Ned?” Duncan asked, for somebody needed to watch Parker at all times, and somebody else needed to carry intelligence back to Duncan.

  Quinn brought his horse to a halt at the foot of Brightwell’s slushy drive, for a return to the house was necessary before anybody set out for London. “You might well be sending these fellows off on a fool’s errand, Duncan. Matilda never promised you anything but heartbreak. Now she’s delivered on her promise, and yet you persist. If she’s made her choice, why can’t you respect that?”

  Stephen made a sound of exasperation and kneed his horse into a canter, while Duncan remained at the foot of the drive, wrestling with…what? Not his conscience, but rather, his heart.

  And Quinn’s protectiveness. “You are preaching logic to a man who thought himself wedded to rational thought, Quinn, and yet, I know Matilda. She offered me more than a promise of heartbreak.”

  The hoofbeats of Stephen’s horse faded, leaving only a chilly wind soughing through the bare trees. In a few hours the light would fade, and traveling would become more difficult as the temperatures dropped.

  “Matilda offered you a traitor’s noose,” Quinn retorted, “and even I cannot protect you if you entangle yourself in high crimes. You are nothing if not sensible, and I rely on you to set a good example for my siblings. To chase off after a woman who has reconciled with a titled fiancé, to flirt with a traitor’s death…why do that? You of all people know where foolish gallantry can lead.”

  Duncan no longer possessed a reasoning mind. His cognitive powers had been replaced with a morass of emotions, hunches, and questions, but he could reply to Quinn with certainty in two regards.

  “First, your siblings are adults. They no longer need a good example, having matured into fine and formidable individuals, worthy of the ducal branch of the Wentworth family. We have to let them go, Quinn, and be there for them when they need us, as Stephen is here for me now.”

  Quinn’s brows twitched down. He gazed up the drive, he fussed with his horse’s mane. “Go on.”

  Meaning, Quinn would discuss Duncan’s observation with Jane, which was sufficient concession for the nonce.

  “Second, I am no longer that good example you allude to. I am no longer the man who came down from York ten years ago, full of learning and determined to outrun a bleak past. My family has given me the time and resources to deal with what troubled that fellow, and I realize now he wasn’t wrong. I am not now, nor have I ever been, guilty of foolish gallantry. I did the right thing when I involved myself in Rachel’s situation. Those around me acted shamefully, but I would make the same choices again, given the chance, and they would be the correct choices.”

  These concepts weren’t complicated, but they were painful. Honor was not a promise of good outcomes and worldly rewards, it was simply a promise to the world of integrity in all circumstances.

  A promise Duncan had kept. He’d promised Matilda safety at Brightwell, and that promise had not been kept.

  He urged his horse forward, because time was of the essence. Quinn’s mount came along, though Duncan didn’t particularly care if the duke was paying attention.

  “You’re older,” Quinn said. “I know that, but I fail to see how embroiling yourself with spies, liars, and an ambitious younger son makes any sense.”

  “Nonetheless, I am honor bound to pursue this matter, Quinn. You can either support me in that end or take your ducal consequence and run back to London like a good boy.”

  The silence that followed was interesting. Nobody told Quinn Wentworth to run along, probably not even his duchess, but the safe course where Matilda was concerned was also the cowardly course.

  And I am not a coward.

  That thought was a gift, and the one that came after it dealt the last blow to Duncan’s doubts:

  Matilda is not a coward either, else she’d never have been able to love a man such as me.

  “Duncan, you aren’t making sense.” That was a plea, not an accusation. Quinn was begging Duncan to return to the rational, taciturn posture of a man who’d rather translate Virgil than wade through Byron’s messy subtleties.

  Alas, that careful, hurting man was no more. “Quinn, shut your mouth. You are trying to be helpful, but you’ve failed to mention the one hypothesis that explains all the facts.”

  Not a hypothesis, a great, blooming, sunny certainty.

  “You’ve lost your mind?” Quinn was warming up for a ducal tirade, which amounted to a series of pithy verbal slices that left a subordinate’s confidence in ribbons. These displays were less and less frequent, but Duncan could not afford to indulge his cousin’s moods.

  And he was not Quinn’s subordinate.

  “The signal reality of my dealings with Matilda is that she is an honorable woman. She left London to protect her father. She made shift without resorting to outright crime even when that left her nearly starving. She told me her circumstances as soon as she realized she could safely do so. She has worked harder for her wages than anybody I know born to service, and she has not once complained about the burdens thrust upon her.”

  “What has this to do with anything?” Quinn began. “Of course, she’d present herself as the pattern card of feminine—”

  “Matilda is protecting me, you lackwit. She’s protecting me, you, the Wentworth name, her father, likely her father’s entire household. If she’s intent on preserving others from harm, then of course she would sail into Parker’s arms impersonating a muddled and weary bride.”

  The horses slopped into the stable yard, where Stephen waited on the steps of the ladies’ mounting block. Grooms took both mounts, though Duncan gave orders that the duke’s horse should be walked rather than unsaddled.

  “You’re going after her,” Quinn said. “You’re sending me ahead to scout the terrain—lackwit that I am—and then you’ll come charging to her rescue.”

  “Thank the celestial intercessors somebody can make Quinn see reason,” Stephen said, heaving to his feet. “I thought we’d have to get Jane involved.”

  “We’ll get Jane involved,” Duncan said, striding for the house. “We’ll get the entire staff, King George, and the Archbishop of Canterbury involved if needs must, won’t we, Quinn?”

  Stephen came up on Quinn’s other side. “Won’t we, Quinn?” He elbowed his brother in the side, hard. Quinn shoved him back, but Stephen had apparently been ready for that, because he caught himself on his canes and flashed a wicked grin. “Won’t we, Quinn?”

  “If you get Jane involved,” Quinn said, “then…”

  Duncan marched onward, mentally preparing for a solitary ride to London by moonlight.

  “Then,” Quinn said, “I suppose the Duke of Walden must interest himself in this little drama as well.”

  “Right answer,” Stephen said. “You spared yourself a thrashing, and my money would have been on Duncan.”

  He slugged Duncan on the arm as they reached the side entrance. Duncan bellowed for Manners and Jinks as Jane came swanning down the steps, the baby in her arms.

  * * *

  No game of chess, no house-party tournament, no high-stakes play had ever taxed Matilda’s mental powers as this game with Lord Atticus Parker taxed her. She must appear overcome with relief to be in his company, though fear rendered her nearly speechless.

  She must seem befuddled and full of fanciful misconceptions, while in fact being more clear minded than she’d ever been.

  She must be creative, spinning theories on a gossamer web of facts, lies, and suppositions, while she
was increasingly certain that Papa was a traitor, else why would the Crown be so persistent in tracking down Thomas Wakefield’s daughter?

  Atticus would not still be offering to marry her if he weren’t convinced she was truly at risk of prosecution.

  Amid all of this storytelling and strategizing, she must in no way betray the horror she felt at abandoning Duncan without a word. He would be furious, but worse, he would be hurt. She should be glad he’d have good cause to turn his back on her and relieved he’d not become entangled in her problems after all.

  She was instead enraged and bereaved, though she could show Atticus none of that.

  “You have given me some interesting ideas to consider,” he said, refilling his coffee cup.

  They were taking supper in the private dining room. Matilda had spent her afternoon “napping,” which meant no helpful maid had come by who might have been trusted to get a note back to Brightwell. Correspondence was going somewhere, though. While pacing past her window, Matilda had seen a liveried groom canter from the innyard in the direction of London.

  Be careful, Papa. Be very careful.

  “I have had weeks to think matters over,” Matilda said. “My imagination has run riot with worry, and I will be only too happy to put the whole business behind me.”

  Untrue, of course. She wanted Duncan beside her, not this supercilious suitor turned interrogator.

  “That will take some time, I’m afraid. Military intelligence likes to make a thorough job of its investigations, and they will have many questions for you.”

  Matilda set down her fork. The time had come to advance a few pawns. “I have questions as well, Atticus. You seem to be in possession of many facts pertaining to my situation, but I must ask how you came by them? Papa would never have confided the whole of the problem to you when he was seldom allowed to go anywhere without footmen, a porter, or grooms at his side.”

  Some of the smugness left the colonel’s gaze. He was doubtless realizing that every discussion he’d had with Papa had been overheard. Every confidence passed along, every boast or veiled threat had been made before witnesses loyal to Thomas Wakefield.

  “I am also curious to know what you were doing in rural Berkshire,” she went on. “You have no relatives in the area that I know of.”

  He patted her wrist. “Your ordeal has resulted in a nervous disposition. No matter. I can be patient, and I will answer all of your questions in time. I do have relatives in Bristol and was on my way to visit them.”

  “That’s not what your coachman said.”

  A good chess player could move a piece while watching her opponent for a reaction to that move. Matilda watched Parker, and his reaction was fleeting but obvious to a practiced eye. He was annoyed and preparing to lie.

  “Of course we were looking for you. Every time I walked down a London street I looked for you. When I paid calls on neighbors in Kent, I looked for you. When I endured an interminable house party in Brighton, I looked for you. I listened for word of you in all the club gossip. I waited daily for a note, I importuned your father to leave no stone unturned in his own search. You caused a great deal of upheaval when you disdained the aid of wiser heads, Matilda. I hope you realize that.”

  Matilda realized Atticus was trying to make her feel ashamed. His little sermon had the opposite effect, for she was growing angrier with each bite of overly salted ham and each sip of unimpressive wine.

  Why hadn’t Papa thought to look for her at Brightwell? He knew she loved the place, knew she’d once dreamed of buying it for herself. Why hadn’t Papa sent one of his legion of servants to leave a note for her at the Brightwell posting inn? When she’d lived in Germany, he’d occasionally written to her using her mother’s maiden name, though Matilda had never thought that quirk more than a family game.

  Why hadn’t Papa put a notice in the London newspapers? He’d told her long ago that if she ever feared for his safety, she should watch the positions-sought advertisements. He would advertise as a porter who spoke Corsu and German, willing to work overnight hours.

  Papa should have spotted such an advertisement. Matilda had placed three and received no response from her father.

  Why did Papa take to spying in the first place, and would Matilda have kicked her heels at boarding school for another ten years had Papa not wanted a young daughter to burnish his image as an art dealer enjoying the cultural riches of the Continent?

  “You hold your tongue,” Parker said, blotting his lips with a table napkin. “Good. I care for you sincerely, but you are in a great deal of trouble, Matilda. Your father and I put it about that you were traveling in America, and that taradiddle was growing difficult to support. When it becomes known that you simply wandered the countryside, unchaperoned and alone, your reputation will suffer.

  “Between that,” he went on, “and your father’s unfortunate possession of suspicious documents—documents which you admit you purloined—I will have all I can do to placate my superiors, keep your neck out of a noose, and shield your father from the worst consequence of his folly. The sooner you marry me, the better.”

  Why was Atticus so eager to marry a potential traitor?

  “I am a widow of means,” Matilda said, setting her plate aside, “connected to a titled family. For me to travel without an escort is hardly objectionable. Traveling in your company, however, will raise a few eyebrows.”

  And make the trail easy for Duncan to follow. That thought hurt. Duncan was not looking for her trail, nor did she want him to.

  She also did not want to marry Atticus Parker, though she would if she had to.

  “Has your appetite deserted you?” Atticus asked.

  Half of Matilda’s dinner remained on her plate. “It has. Would you like to play a game of chess?”

  He gave a mock shudder. “The most tedious game ever devised for the amusement of gouty old men. Thank you, no. I’ll escort you to your room.”

  Matilda did not need an escort to travel up one flight of stairs and down a short hallway. Parker was making some sort of point—that he was a gentleman, perhaps. He held her chair, he held the door, he politely followed her up the steps, then took the wrong direction on the second floor.

  “My room is the third door on the left in that direction,” Matilda said.

  “I had your things moved to a more commodious chamber,” Parker said. “You are to be my wife, after all.”

  That again. Matilda let him lead her to another room, this one facing the stable yard. The chamber was about the same size as her previous quarters, with the same appointments. She had no things of her own, but the brush, hand mirror, shawl, and nightgown the innkeeper’s wife had lent her were laid out on the vanity.

  “I’ll send the maid along,” Parker said. “We’ll be in London by this time tomorrow.”

  Matilda had doubts about that. “I am anxious to see my father. He will be very grateful that you made it possible for me to return home.”

  Atticus remained in the doorway, his hand on the latch. “You’ll have a new home very soon, Matilda. Let that thought comfort you as you dream, but answer one more question for me. What did you do with this curious missive you claimed to find among your father’s belongings? Can you direct me to it now?”

  He’d waited until they were alone to ask that question, but Matilda had already decided upon her answer.

  “Do you think me stupid enough to carry plans that could jeopardize England’s safety when my own existence grew more precarious by the week? I burned that letter at the first opportunity.”

  The relief in his eyes was genuine. “Well done, my dear. Very, very well done.”

  He drew the door closed on that odd comment, and Matilda went to the window.

  This was why he’d put her in a different room. The first chamber had looked out over the front of the inn, and Matilda’s window had been a few scant feet higher than the awning above the front door. With some luck and care, she could have climbed out the window and down a trellis
. This room offered a twenty-foot drop to the muddy innyard.

  Colonel Lord Atticus Parker, her concerned, trustworthy, war-hero, self-appointed fiancé, was a gentleman, and Matilda was his prisoner, or the next thing to it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Who is Lieutenant Colonel Lord Atticus Parker?” Duncan asked as the coach swayed around yet another turn.

  More to the point, what was Atticus Parker? A younger son, war hero, and gentleman, or an ambitious officer who’d exploit any opportunity to better his situation? Both? A suitor moved by genuine concern for his intended?

  “Lord Atticus was the Marquess of Creswell’s spare,” Jane said, “until the heir assumed the title. The current marquess has three sons and a daughter, and he and his marchioness were reportedly a love match.”

  The baby started to fuss, poor little mite. Jane and Quinn had been at Brightwell for mere hours before Duncan had ordered a fresh team put to. He’d sent a grumbling Quinn ahead to London on horseback, while the nurses were in the next coach back with the older girls. Stephen was serving as an outrider, and Jinks was up on the box, peppering the coachman with questions.

  “So like many spares, Lord Atticus is making his career in the military,” Duncan said, “and doing a splendid job of it. What else do we know of him?”

  “I’ve danced with him,” Jane said, putting the baby to her shoulder and rubbing her back. “He made waltzing with a duchess not a privilege, but a duty. He cuts a fine figure in regimentals, had an adequate store of small talk, and hasn’t ever married.”

  “Why not?”

  The baby was in a fractious mood. She escalated from fussing to making I-am-about-to-start-bellowing-my-discontent-for-all-to-hear noises.

  “I beg your pardon?” Jane asked, patting the baby’s back more quickly.

  “Why hasn’t a colonel in His Majesty’s military married? An officer’s wife can do much to advance his career, and army life without a spouse is lonely.” Countless women had followed the drum with Wellington’s army, countless others had traveled with it as cooks, laundresses, and seamstresses. The general opinion on the matter was that men fought more fiercely when they were reminded about who and what they were fighting for.