The Captive Duke, page 14
The trip to Town was providentially well timed, for conflicting emotions besieged Gilly.
She was developing tender feelings for the duke, and that would not do, because she was determined never again to be under a man’s thumb. Not by action of marriage, not by action of her foolish, lonely heart.
Maybe a little in love would be acceptable, except Mercia wasn’t a little-in-love sort of man. He was mad, dark passion, sweeping emotion, and complete loss of reason, with his gaunt male beauty, his wealth and power, and his haunted past. He also needed another bride, preferably a sweet young thing with pots of money, a fertile womb, and not a thought in her head save the pleasure of wearing a tiara.
What sensible widow crowding close on twenty-six years on earth wanted to watch a man she was even a little in love with pursued by that sort of competition?
But where else was she to go?
Mercia would be offended when—not if—she took herself off to dwell elsewhere, even if Lucy were managing better by then. His Grace honestly regarded Gilly as a relation deserving of his protection, and he was determined to provide it.
Maybe he needed to.
As Gilly prowled the sitting room that served as antechamber to Mr. Stoneleigh’s offices, her musings were interrupted by a tidy young man sporting a deal of Macassar oil.
“Mr. Stoneleigh will see you now, your ladyship.”
He ushered her into a baronial inner sanctum, one graced with thick Turkey rugs, a huge marble fireplace, and a massive dark desk, behind which, like a tall, dark-haired captain on his poop deck, stood Mr. Gervaise Stoneleigh.
“Countess.” He came around the desk and offered her a bow. “You are in good looks, my lady. My apologies for asking you to travel while your loss is so fresh.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Stoneleigh. Location does not lessen or enhance grief, particularly when I feel anything but bereaved.”
He looked peevish or perhaps nonplussed at her honesty.
“Come now,” Gilly said, handing him her black jacket. “You told me I may speak freely with you, did you not?”
“I did.” He looked at the jacket as if he hadn’t a clue where it had come from, then deposited it on a hook on the back of the door. “Please have a seat, and assure me you’re going on well since last we met.”
His solicitude was offered in such punctilious tones Gilly wasn’t sure it was genuine, but then she caught him looking at her, dark eyes focused with peculiar intensity.
“I am in good health and enjoying the hospitality of the Duke of Mercia, a cousin by marriage through his late duchess. He’s asked me to assist him in putting his household to rights at the family seat, and to take an interest in my niece, which is hardly an imposition.”
“You’ve retrieved your belongings from Greendale?”
“I have, though you didn’t tell me what the urgency is.”
“I’m not sure there is any, but I’ve received word Easterbrook may take up residence there sooner than later. He’s mustering out.”
Thank goodness she’d retrieved her belongings, though she and Marcus had always rubbed along civilly. “Leaving the army? I thought he loved it.”
“Napoleon is at long last vanquished, and the options for those who want to remain in service are far flung, and not likely to offer as much action. Many of the officers are happy to return to home shores.”
“And the Army can hardly afford to keep them on when there’s no war to fight.” Though men did so love to commit slaughter in the name of patriotism, didn’t they?
Some men. She couldn’t see Mercia ever again setting foot on the field of battle, thank heavens.
Stoneleigh’s lips twitched, probably his version of a fit of hilarity.
“Let us sit, Mr. Stoneleigh, and let us be direct with each other. You may speak freely, and I assure you I will not quote you.”
He led her to a conversational grouping near the yawning fireplace—no fire for the man of law, not on a pleasant summer day.
“You truly are in good looks,” he said, his tone puzzled. “Was marriage to Greendale as bad as all that?”
Her marriage had been a hell beyond the worst imaginings of the seventeen-year-old innocent she’d been. She suspected even Stoneleigh would have found the circumstances daunting, and he was far from innocent.
“Marriage to Greendale was worse than I’d wish on the Corsican himself.”
He let the comment pass and took a seat in a wing chair at a right angle to Gilly’s place on a gorgeous blue brocade sofa.
“I’ll be direct at your invitation: Are you with child, Lady Greendale?”
“Heavens, no.”
“You’re sure?” He was absolutely serious in his inquiry.
“Not unless the Second Coming is imminent, and I the unworthy vessel chosen for the Almighty’s arrival.”
“You might want to take measures to alter your status in this regard,” Stoneleigh said, once again the brusque barrister. “I’ve had a look at Greendale’s will, and you benefit greatly if you can produce a posthumous child, your ladyship.”
“Greendale regaled me at many turns with the terms of his will, Mr. Stoneleigh, and I assure you, he intended to leave me penniless.”
“He wasn’t entirely forthcoming, then, because he wrote a codicil about a year ago, and left the unentailed sum of his estate, less your dower portion, to any child of your body born within a year of his death.”
“He was giving me permission to get with child practically at his graveside? What an odd notion.”
“No, he was conforming his will to the common law, which attributes paternity of a child to the mother’s husband, up to one year into her widowhood. This is in part why mourning lasts a year.”
The common law needed to consult with a competent midwife. “Not even horses carry for a year in the normal course, Mr. Stoneleigh.”
“Common law predates modern science, and even nature allows for some variability.”
He looked very prim, defending his silly common law, but Gilly would have liked him for it if she didn’t already firmly approve of him.
“Well, this is all very interesting, but hardly relevant to me. I am not with child, I cannot be with child, and I doubt I could accomplish it even if I tried. Was there more?”
He crossed his legs and settled back in his chair, studying her as if she were a rare legal volume on loan from another barrister. Maybe the cool, capable Mr. Stoneleigh had expected some other reaction from her.
Perhaps she was to proposition him to accommodate her quest for a child, reducing the hourly rate for his services in light of her bereavement. Of course in the process, she’d catch a chill, what with being in intimate proximity to him. She was smiling at her thoughts when he fell silent.
“I’m sorry, you were saying, Mr. Stoneleigh?”
“I’ve seen what funds you gave me into the keeping of Mr. Worth Kettering, the man of business I use myself. He is particularly careful dealing with a widow’s mite, and has had good success with his investments. He will expect you to call on him, and you will receive quarterly statements describing the progress of your funds. But a word of advice, my lady?”
Stoneleigh’s advice had prevented Gilly from being charged with murder.
“I am not in any great hurry, Mr. Stoneleigh.” Only a small hurry, because she could not countenance Mercia being anxious over her absence.
“If Mercia is inclined to settle a competence on you, you’d be well advised to see the thing done.” Stoneleigh was being oblique, possibly insinuating something nasty.
“I assure you, Mr. Stoneleigh, His Grace is recovering well from his ordeal. His faculties are sound, and we need not worry about his imminent decline or demise.”
Gilly was fiercely proud of her duke, that she could offer these assurances, and with such confidence. Mercia was emerging from captivity stronger than he’d been, stronger than any duke had ever been, and Wellington had nothing to say to it.
“His recovery might well be part of the problem.”
Stoneleigh was not unkind, but subtlety was not his forte, and Gilly did not want to endure tea and crumpets with him until he meandered around to whatever plagued him.
“How could healing from all manner of abuse be a bad thing, Mr. Stoneleigh? His Grace lost his wife and son while he was in France. A lesser man would not have the resilience to cope with that much grief.”
“He copes by plotting revenge, my lady. The word at the clubs is Mercia intends to confront his captors and see them pay for their transgressions. He’s begun gathering information, laying his traps, some say.”
In his way, Stoneleigh was trying to be kind—and failing.
“Imagine, Mr. Stoneleigh, having no privacy about your bodily functions for months. Imagine having your fingernails forcibly extracted. Imagine beating after beating. Imagine your body decorated with so many scars, you resemble a walking piece of appliqué. Imagine your sleep always interrupted, your ability to digest food ruined…”
She was nearly shaking at this litany, and Stoneleigh was none too happy with her for imposing it upon him.
Gilly rose, unwilling to allot more time to Stoneleigh’s gossip.
“Of course, His Grace will remain informed regarding the whereabouts of the demons who tormented him. We are at peace, however, and his succession hangs by a slender thread. He will not jeopardize the Severn family holdings for petty quests for revenge. If ever a mortal has learned the folly of violence, it is Mercia.”
And what an intimate, unlikely lesson for Gilly to share with a young, healthy duke of the realm, a man in his prime.
Stoneleigh’s eyes were expressive, something he likely worked to hide. He wanted to tell her to get that competence in writing, though. Gilly could see that much as plain as the gold pin in his cravat.
Stoneleigh turned the topic to Lucy, to the victory celebrations and their reported expense, and was soon draping Gilly’s jacket around her shoulders. The movement put Gilly in mind of Mercia, who’d used her shawl to draw her close…
“Lady Greendale, you will keep me apprised of how you fare, won’t you?” He was giving her his Concerned Barrister’s look again, hooded, intense, and compelling. “You’ll call on me if I can be of any service whatsoever, my lady? I’ll have your promise on this.”
Gilly pulled on black gloves. “You are being dramatic, Mr. Stoneleigh, and I must say it’s endearing, so yes, I’ll give you my promise.”
He bowed low over her hand and escorted her to the door, all starch and propriety. Behind his calculating lawyer’s mind and brusque manner, there beat the heart of a knight errant willing to tilt at windmills on behalf of a damsel in distress—or the common law.
Gilly sent Mercia a note letting him know her business with Stoneleigh was satisfactorily concluded, and lingered in Town a few days, seeing to her wardrobe. She made use of Mercia’s town house, hoping the duke used her absence to grow closer to his daughter.
His Grace loved little Lucy, he loved his land, and he grieved for his departed family. Gilly knew he did, despite the absence of tears or words to that effect. Silence could be more articulate and profound than all the words in the language.
And as for revenge, she would not believe it of the man who’d wrapped her shawl about her and held her so tenderly only a few nights past. Mercia was healing, as Gilly was, and violence had no place in the process. Not for her.
And not for him. She was almost sure of it.
Christian missed his countess and thought Lucy did too. The child was less animated, less enthusiastic when he went up to the nursery after the countess’s departure.
“She will be back, you know,” he said as they walked out to the stables. Lucy was in a miniature riding habit, one that Gillian—he used her name, a small weapon to combat her absence—must have fashioned for the child, because the hems were shorter than they would be on an adult’s clothing.
“You could put some embroidery on this fetching little outfit,” he said as they approached the barn. “I’m sure her ladyship would help you design something for it.”
Lucy gave a halfhearted nod, suggesting the countess’s absence might not be the only reason for the child’s blue devils.
“Are you pining for your kitten, princess?”
She glanced up at him, her gaze guarded, then dropped her eyes. He’d guessed correctly, at least in part.
“Your kitten will grow up to be a sleek, fat-headed tomcat, ever interested in the ladies and in the hunt,” Christian said, thinking this description might fit many a lordling too. “He will stay up until all hours, yodeling pathetically when he’s in love, which will be most nights outside the month of December, and one can hardly look forward to having that around the house, can one?”
Lucy’s lips twitched, and she shook her head. A start.
“And when he’s of a mind to mark his territory, he’ll sneer at the chamber pot and mess all over the curtains and rugs, leaving a stench that lingers for days. You don’t want him anointing your drapes, do you, princess?”
Another shake of her head, a little broader smile.
“And when he becomes dyspeptic, he’ll present his last three meals right at your feet after he’s partially digested them, including such bones and hair as will not allow of proper alimentation. We don’t want that going on in the house, do we?”
She grinned at him, and his heart gave up a burden laid there not only by his foul language in the nursery, but by some half-starved French cats and the predators among whom they abided.
“Well, then, no more cats in the nursery. Agreed?”
She stuck out her hand for him to shake. He did, then swung her up onto the ladies’ mounting block. The grooms led Chessie over, Christian climbed aboard, then hauled Lucy up before him.
They had a perfectly lovely ride, with Lucy pointing and bouncing in the saddle when she wanted to direct his attention to something—a late lamb stotting around his mama in the high summer grass, hedge apples in bloom, a swan on the small lake.
He let Chessie wander under low-hanging tree limbs, so he had an excuse to bend close and cadge a soapy whiff of his daughter’s clean, silky hair.
“You know, princess, I would keep your secrets, did you want to whisper them to me. You need not speak aloud, but merely whisper a word or two in my ear someday, should you no longer desire to be so alone in your silence.”
She went still before him, and he wished he could see her expression.
“But your silence is precious as well. I’ll tell you a secret, if you like.”
She nodded, cautiously.
“I had pets, in…France. You’ll think me foolish—I think me foolish, for that matter, but they were my only friends. Do you know of whom I speak? Little fellows with no weapons, no big teeth or fierce claws, helpless little beasts who wanted only a morsel to eat, and to live out their days in peace. Can you guess who they were?”
What was he doing, telling this to a child?
But she was listening; he knew she was listening.
“They were very quiet, like you, quiet as mice, for they were mice. They came around looking for crumbs, hiding from the castle cats, and I let them eat what fell from my plate. We became great friends, the mice and I. We endured our privations together.”
But the mice had never become tame, had never quite given up their wariness, no matter how cold or hungry they were. He’d admired those small, soft, helpless creatures, and as miserable as his rations had been, he’d never begrudged the mice their crumbs.
Lucy said nothing, but she relaxed back against her papa.
She no doubt thought he was teasing, but he was damn near tears, and finished the ride as silent as his little princess.
Lucy must have picked up on his mood—she was a bright child, after all—because when he went to swing her down off the high mounting block used by the ladies, she clung to him for a moment, her arms lashed around his neck, her face buried against his shoulder.
A hug, for the man who’d had no friends save the mice, from the daughter who could not tell him she loved him.
Ten
CHRISTIAN TRIED NOT TO SPEND HIS DAYS LOOKING down the drive, anticipating Gillian’s return from Town. She’d sent a note along telling him she was detained by sartorial matters and would not be back until week’s end.
So he stayed busy, which wasn’t difficult.
The land steward, Hancock, was happy to ride out with him as the weather permitted; the tenants were pleased to have his lordship “drop by” on a schedule Hancock carefully arranged. Vicar came to call again, a fifteen-minute ordeal without Gillian smiling and chattering over the tea service.
Christian had nightmares, of course, worse for Gillian’s absence, or for something, but it helped—some—that he was gradually adding activity to his day.
Having word of Girard’s whereabouts would have helped more.
St. Just had warned Christian about others held prisoner, fellows who’d taken months to regain enough health to rejoin their regiments. Christian’s body wasn’t taking months. He was putting on muscle, his teeth and gums were restored to reliable use, but his mind wasn’t coming along at such a spanking pace.
The nightmares were to be expected, but at least once every day, he’d hear a door slam and his heart would pound for no reason.
Candlelight glinting off a paring knife could make his lungs seize.
He’d attempt some simple task with his left hand—tying a cravat—and fail so miserably he wanted to destroy all in his reach.
This last problem was particularly vexing. His left hand was growing stronger, but its dexterity was limited. The right hand was strong enough, but was still clumsy. Hands were such an obvious, integral part of bodily competence that Christian became determined to address his manual limitations.
But every day that Gillian lingered in Town, the demons rose higher in his mind: What was the point of learning to shave himself right-handed—not that he’d suffer a valet to come near him with a razor, of course. What was the point of coaxing Lucy to speak again? What was the point of continuing to draw breath? The world had thought him dead once before, and gone on turning quite handily without him.
