by Tuft, Karen
* * *
The first thing Anthony noticed when he arrived at his room to make himself presentable to see his father was the empty serving tray. While he’d fully expected Lucas to devour everything, his encounter with Miss Amelia Clarke had been oddly invigorating, and his appetite had returned.
“The maids have gotten your bath ready, although it won’t be nice and hot by now,” Lucas said, entering the bedchamber from the adjoining dressing room. “I also requested more food. You can’t face your father on an empty stomach.”
“Couldn’t find the willpower to leave any for me?” Anthony asked.
“Too many months of infantry rations have left me a broken man,” Lucas replied, a ridiculous hangdog expression on his face. “I have no resistance to good food anymore and find I cannot stop myself until there isn’t a crumb remaining.”
Anthony understood that sentiment.
He removed his jacket and waistcoat, tossing them onto the bed, then tugged off his neckcloth and shirt on his way into his dressing room. “I doubt I’ll find anything that will even fit me in that wardrobe,” he called back to Lucas. “I’ve lost at least two stone.”
“I took the liberty of rummaging through it while you were gone. Luckily for you, I already found a few items in that extensive wardrobe of yours that might work,” Lucas said, bringing Anthony’s old dressing gown with him. “I want to check that wound of yours before you immerse yourself.”
“It’s fine.”
“I want to see it, Captain.”
“That’s Captain Lord to you,” Anthony joked, but he stood still so Lucas could examine the bullet wound he’d taken in his side. “As you can see, it has healed, thanks to a merciful God and you and Señora Bartolo.” Anthony didn’t know how Lucas had managed it, especially during the horrific aftermath of the battle, but he’d found a local woman willing to take them in and see to Anthony. Bribery, most likely. The number of killed and wounded had been staggering, and the locals hadn’t been inclined to help after the brutalities the British soldiers had committed following the battle, from what Anthony had been able to gather since.
Lucas probed at the wound, making Anthony hiss. “Not quite healed but better.”
“Then, with your permission, I will bathe.” He removed his breeches and eased himself into the tub. The water was warm enough, especially when compared with the streams of Spain, which had been all that was available for months. He settled deeper into the water, allowing it to soothe the tension in his mind and body.
“You do realize you are no longer my personal servant now that we are out of the army,” he said to Lucas before shutting his eyes and submerging himself without waiting for a reply. Lucas had enlisted rather than purchase an officer’s commission, so he had been assigned to Anthony in that capacity.
Lucas was still there when Anthony reemerged and slicked the water from his face and hair. “I expect I will eventually accustom myself to the change, Captain—wait, is that Captain Lord or Lord Captain?—I get so confused at times.”
“I’m thinking that the honorable fourth son of a viscount would have had any confusion regarding titles beaten out of him in school. But if you are indeed unsure, you may refer to me as Your Highness.”
“Thank you, Your Highness,’” Lucas said and then grew serious. “And while I may not be your valet and personal servant anymore, I intend to remain with you for a while longer. Dash it, Tony, you saved my life on more than one occasion.”
“As you saved mine,” Anthony said. “I should have been buried with others in a hastily dug grave if not for your quick actions.”
“Then, in gratitude let me decide my own future and allow me to remain here for the time being. I intend to see you healed before I leave.”
“Fine. Now begone so I may scrub my feet and other necessary parts. And see what is keeping that tray. I’m famished.”
Lucas winked and gave him an exaggerated bow. “As you wish, Your Highness.”
* * *
“There you are,” Lady Ashworth said as she hurried down the hallway toward Amelia. The marchioness looked years younger, her smile full of sunshine and hope. “Oh, my dear, you should have seen Ashworth’s face when I gave him the good news!”
If the marquess’s face looked anything like hers, it would have been a beautiful sight to behold indeed. Amelia had spent many silent hours the past few weeks at Lady Ashworth’s side, watching his lordship waste away—and her ladyship as well, sick with worry for him.
“I have dashed off a note to Louisa and Farleigh,” Lady Ashworth continued. “They will want to be here as soon as possible, I’m sure. Louisa will be ecstatic to see her brother alive and whole. And Anthony will be in raptures when he sees how his sweet nephew, William, has grown and little Penelope too—they’ve never even met, and Penny is walking and talking.
“There is much to do, Amelia, and I am going to need your good help, as always.” She took both Amelia’s hands in her own. It was impossible not to respond to Lady Ashworth’s joy and enthusiasm. “And, my dear, how glad I am that we will be doing happy things for once after so much sadness. Come!” She led Amelia into her sitting room, and they each took a seat on the sofa. “Ashworth will need to rest after he is reunited with Anthony. While he does, we shall make arrangements. We must have a celebration and include everyone: the neighbors, the tenants, the village. Everyone!”
“But the family is still in mourning,” Amelia said.
“It is true that my poor, dear Alexander has not been gone for a full year. But, Amelia, Ashworth and I lost both our sons, and we have been given one of them back again. He is alive. It is a time of rejoicing for the family and for everyone else here as well. The continuation of Ashworth affects all the people of the estate and village. We are their home and their livelihood. To have Anthony back means the family line will continue. He will eventually become Ashworth and hopefully have a son who will follow him as marquess someday.” She patted Amelia’s hand before standing again, bubbling with enthusiasm and energy. “Now, I must get back to Ashworth. We will meet for tea later this afternoon to make plans.” Lady Ashworth dashed off with a lightness of step Amelia hadn’t seen in months.
Well, there was nothing for it. Things were going to get busy around here—and quickly. Amelia rose. Mrs. Shaw and Mrs. Deal needed to know about the celebration Lady Ashworth had in mind, and Amelia may as well inform them now. She could pass on the necessary details later.
* * *
The door to his father’s bedchamber was closed when Anthony arrived bathed and shaved, and he could hear his parents’ murmuring voices on the other side of it. He paced away and then back again, tugging at the waistcoat Lucas had spotted in the back of Anthony’s wardrobe. His clothes were out of fashion, being a handful of years out of date, but as they had been tailored to fit a younger, more youthful version of himself, they fortuitously hid the weight he’d recently lost.
The clothing also spared him from donning his dress uniform, the only other thing he had at hand. Since he was no longer an officer, he was disinclined to wear it now.
He was anxious but reluctant to see his father. He wanted to reassure himself of the marquess’s health but knew seeing him would make the situation undeniably real. Speculation, such as it was, could be exaggerated horribly or minimized optimistically, but fact was fact.
He took a deep breath, set his jaw, and knocked softly.
His father’s valet opened the door, bowing as Anthony entered the room.
“Thank you, Harrison,” Anthony murmured.
“It is very good to see you, my lord,” Harrison replied with touching earnestness.
The Marquess of Ashworth was sitting up in bed, supported by a regiment of pillows, wearing an elegant burgundy dressing gown. His dark hair was much more heavily threaded with silver now but was neatly groomed, and he was freshly shaven. He was still ver
y much the marquess Anthony recognized from his boyhood and youth, but Anthony did not miss the pallor of his father’s cheeks and the boniness of the wrists and hands resting on top of the counterpane.
His father’s frail state was shocking, but it was the expression on his face that gave Anthony pause. It was a complexity of emotions: suspicion, pain . . . and hope, all restrained by aristocratic decorum.
“Father,” Anthony said. “It is good to see you.”
The marquess closed his eyes and let out a shuddering sigh before opening them again. “It truly is you, then,” he said. “My son. I scarcely dared believe what your mother told me.”
The marquess raised his hand, and Anthony walked forward and took it in his own. It felt familiar and reassuring, although the grip was weak. “Yes, Father,” Anthony said. “I have come home.”
“Praise God.” His eyes roamed hungrily over Anthony’s person as his hand returned to rest on the counterpane, taking Anthony’s with it. “You have lost weight, boy.”
“As have you, sir.”
“True enough.”
“And I will happily see to fattening you both up,” Anthony’s mother interjected, leaning over to pat her husband affectionately on the shoulder.
“Eleanor,” the marquess said. “If you would be so kind, I would like a few words alone with my son.”
“Do not be too hard on him, Ashworth,” she replied. She stood and kissed him affectionately on the cheek. “He has only just arrived, and I have not got my fill of him yet, so I won’t have you scaring him back to Spain.”
“Nonsense, woman. Anthony’s not going anywhere.” His lips had curved up ever so slightly when she’d kissed his cheek, and if Anthony hadn’t seen it for himself, he wouldn’t have believed it. The Marquess of Ashworth was a proud man. To allow such a show of affection, even before his own son, was simply not done in fashionable society and was not something he would have tolerated before. “She takes advantage of my powerlessness to shower me with feminine emotions. It becomes more than a man can bear at times.”
“Silly man,” his equally aristocratic mother said as she flounced out the door. Yes, that was it. She had flounced.
The silly man in question, the esteemed Marquess of Ashworth, only sighed. “Sit down, Anthony. I have much to say and not much time to say it before your mother will return and tuck me in like I am but a babe in the nursery.”
Anthony took the chair his mother had occupied. He could feel his jaw tensing. “Yes, Father?”
“First of all, I would know the circumstances surrounding your so-called death.”
Anthony immediately rose again to gaze out the bedchamber window, but what he saw instead were the ghastly images of the war: The weeks of miserable torrential rain and the continuous gunfire from the French. The most gruesome of deaths as men were stabbed, shot, trampled, and blown to bits; the wounded suffering and suffocating in the hellish, ever-present mud. A woman’s sob, a shot ringing out, and a searing pain in his side crippling him instantly. Falling, seeing red, and then seeing nothing at all . . .
Anthony returned his gaze to his father. “I was badly wounded in a remote part of the city,” he said simply.
“I suspect there is more to it than that,” his father replied, arching an eyebrow.
“True,” Anthony replied. “But it is a conversation for a later time. Suffice it to say the casualties were in the thousands, and those assigned to deal with the matter were put to better use seeing to the wounded.”
“Of which you were one,” his father pointed out.
“As I said, I was in a remote part of the city. Fortunately Lucas found me before I met my Maker and arranged for a local woman to care for my wounds. As the two of them stayed at my side for the next several days, my whereabouts went unreported.”
His father only shook his head. But since there was no way Anthony could sufficiently describe the ordeal—nor had he any wish to—he left the details unsaid.
“Perhaps one day you will feel able to tell me what you endured. I hope so. But we must deal in the here and now, I suppose. And to that end, we must face the obvious: you are Halford now,” his father said.
Anthony shuddered. The simple statement spoke volumes. Alexander had been Anthony’s best friend, he being only a couple years Anthony’s senior. And since they had studied with the same tutor and Anthony had followed Alex to school and university, he’d also witnessed the additional training—and pressures—Alex had undergone as Earl of Halford, heir to the Marquess of Ashworth.
“I know that, Father.” Assuming the title felt uncomfortable, as it had always been his brother’s and Anthony had never aspired to it.
“You have responsibilities that require urgent attention as a result.”
“I intend to do all I can to assume the role in Alexander’s place, Father. With your permission, I will set up a meeting with your land steward today—”
“Hang the land steward!” his father exclaimed, slapping his hand on the counterpane and then stopping to catch his breath. “And hang this foolish illness of mine,” he added when he’d adequately recovered. “I’m not talking about the estate, boy. I’m talking heirs.”
Anthony clenched his teeth until he thought they might crack. “Heirs?” he managed to say, embarrassed to hear his voice squeak out the word.
“Yes, of course, heirs. I lost both of my heirs this year, and it very nearly killed me. Now that we have been given a second chance, I refuse to hand Ashworth and its people over to some mealy-mouthed second cousin from the Cotswolds. Heirs, boy. By some miracle, by the grace of God, I got one of my sons back,” he continued, his hands now two tight fists atop the counterpane. A coiling tension spread through Anthony’s body. “I’ve had a glimpse of my own mortality, and it isn’t pretty, I can assure you.”
He stopped speaking to take several more breaths, and then he sat up straight, and his countenance changed, becoming the Marquess of Ashworth in all his authority and not merely Anthony’s father. “I want your word, Halford, that you will do everything in your power to present me with your legitimate heir within the year.”
“A year, sir?” Images of terrified Spanish eyes and screaming mouths flashed through his mind again, vivid and horrible. He swallowed hard. “To present you with my legitimate heir? That means—”
“Marriage. Yes, yes, I know. You will have to get on with the business quickly.”
Striving to sound calm and reasonable when what he felt was panic, Anthony said, “Even so, Father, there is the chance that the child in question will be female.”
“It won’t be.” The Marquess of Ashworth delivered the statement with alarming force and absolute confidence. “It must be a boy. And it will.”
While the gentlemen of the aristocracy were definitely the lords of their manors, Anthony doubted his father had quite as much say when it came to such godly matters as the procreative process, although Anthony wasn’t inclined to point that out at the moment. Besides, he knew what his duty as heir required. “I will do everything in my power,” he told his father, “to do as you ask.”
“I’ll have your word on it.”
“You have it,” Anthony snapped. It rankled him that his father would demand it again of him. He had just said he would, had he not? Anthony had always kept his word as a gentleman and as an officer, and that his father needed to hear the words repeated was, under normal circumstances, an affront to Anthony’s honor.
His father nodded and shut his eyes, his head sinking back into the pillows. “Good,” he said. “That is very good.”
It spoke to the helplessness and desperation his father must feel that he would push Anthony in this way, in their first conversation, no less. His father might live to see the completion of a twelvemonth—or live for years. Or he could die tomorrow, especially if he remained as agitated as he had gotten during their conversation.
“I’ll leave you to rest now, Father,” Anthony said.
He needed a drink.
Chapter 3
There was to be a grand fete held Friday week in celebration of the return of Lord Anthony Hargreaves, the new Earl of Halford, formerly Captain Lord Hargreaves of His Majesty’s Army, from his perilous adventures on the Peninsula, where he had been reported a casualty of war. So Lady Ashworth had announced to Amelia when she’d located her after leaving her son with her husband to get reacquainted.
It sounded exciting—and a good lot of fun too, Amelia thought. Buxton, Mrs. Shaw, and Mrs. Deal would take organizing Ashworth Park in hand, particularly for the ball that would be held the evening of the fete, so Amelia had volunteered to organize the tenants and villagers in their contributions for the day’s activities. As the daughter of a vicar, she was accustomed to this type of thing, and in fact, it was something she enjoyed.
She tied her bonnet on her head and grabbed her shawl in preparation for the walk into the village. The weather had been cooperative lately, and Amelia wanted to take advantage of it while she could.
The village of Ashworthy was about a mile from Ashworth Park. Since no one was around, Amelia quickened her pace. It felt good to stretch her legs and to be out of the house for the afternoon.
Lord Halford disquieted her. In their first conversation, he had been blunt, almost insulting at times, although Amelia could be quite frank herself on occasion, so she allowed that her observation was just that: an observation.
It was the close scrutiny he had given her that had unnerved her. It had been startlingly thorough and had made her tingle all over while at the same time arousing her caution.