The Last Lady of Thornhill Manor

by Patricia Haverton

  “While I do not understand why, I will respect your wishes.”

  “Thank you.”

  After a quick glance at his pocket watch, he said, “It is time to change for supper. May I escort you to your rooms?”

  Amalia smiled up at him. “You may.”

  After seeing her to her vast array of rooms, Reggie continued on to his own, where his valet, Benjamin, helped him to wash, change, and dispersed any possible lint from his impeccable black coat with a small brush. He liked wearing black with a blue or grey cravat, and his color choices never failed to attract the young women of the ton to him.

  But there is only one woman for me.

  “Get yourself some supper, Ben,” he said, striding toward the door. “I may not be back until late.”

  “Very good, My Lord.”

  At the table, he took his place as acting host of the household, observing Eastcairn’s excessive attention to Amalia and stifled an inner snarl. While she greeted him with the same politeness she gave all guests in her home, Reggie wondered if there was a means to eject him without insult. He shuffled a few ideas through his head and rejected them all. He needs to go to the Orkneys with Patrick, and soon.

  Patrick began the conversation by gushing over his new position within the ducal business. “I am so excited to start. Cousin, I will make the Duke richer than Croesus.”

  Sipping her wine, Amalia nodded, but her smile was strained. “That is good, Patrick. I am certain my father will be pleased at your prospects for him.”

  “Pleased?” Patrick glanced around the table as though stunned by her lack of enthusiasm. “I would hope he is as excited as I am. I feel like this is a very unique opportunity to get ahead of our competitors. By the time they wake up, we will own the French wine import business.”

  “I think that His Grace will be pleased,” Eastcairn interjected with a smile. “But he is yet quite ill, Patrick, and perhaps Amalia is simply worried about him.”

  “Lady Gallagher, please, Lord Eastcairn,” Amalia said, her eyes snapping. “Supper is a formal occasion, and we must respect its traditions.”

  Now that is putting the idiot in his place. Reggie hid his smirk behind his wineglass, observing Eastcairn’s rapid annoyance before he covered it with a polite social smile.

  “Of course, Lady Gallagher,” he said smoothly. “I stand corrected.”

  “Yes, my father, the Duke will no doubt be very happy,” Amalia went on, glancing at Patrick. “What exactly will you be doing beginning tomorrow?”

  Patrick eyed her sharply, but the question was a fair one in Reggie’s eyes. As the standing heir to the Thornhill wealth, Amalia was well within her rights to make inquiries of the Duke’s employees, of which Patrick was now one. He launched into his plan to make contact with French wineries, those that were still in operation that was, and begin the process of importing their wines and champagnes. Reggie felt impressed at her wealth of knowledge of the import business and asked Patrick pointed questions as to his plans.

  Apparently satisfied, she said. “Very good. You will report everything to Mr. Bannock, Patrick. He will be your direct supervisor until my father returns to health.”

  Patrick’s expression appeared akin to biting into a sour apple. Then he smiled brightly. “Yes, of course. I think Mr. Bannock and I will get along famously.”

  “I am sure you will,” Amalia replied without an answering smile. “Now then, from now on, I will follow my father’s practice of no talking business at table.”

  “Then how about we make a toast to His Majesty the King, and his son, His Royal Highness the Prince Regent,” Eastcairn said with a grin, lifting his glass.

  The toast was duly observed, and Reggie wondered at what game he was playing. He found his answer shortly after.

  “Were you aware that I am personal friends with Prinny?” Eastcairn asked, using the informal nickname given to the Prince Regent. “He is always asking my advice, you know. We are quite close.”

  Now that is a lie if ever I heard one. Reggie eyed Eastcairn sourly and knew the Prince’s circle of friends did not include the Earl of Eastcairn. “Is that so?” he asked, his tone polite, impressed. “How does His Highness stand on the war in France?”

  Eastcairn took a moment to sip his wine, then replied, “You know, Prinny stands with justice.”

  What the hell does that mean? “Ah, of course,” Reggie replied, smiling. “He is British, after all. How dare Napoleon stand against the forces of Britain and her allies?”

  Eastcairn smiled thinly. “How dare he indeed.”

  Amalia frowned slightly. Reggie recognized her confusion as she was always up to date with current events. Eastcairn covered his lapse by raising his glass again. “How about we toast the most beautiful lady I have ever had the honor to court?”

  Amalia did not raise her glass. “Exactly how many ladies have you courted, Lord Eastcairn? I am, of course, quite curious.”

  “Ah, well, a gentleman never tells, Lady Gallagher,” he replied with an impish grin. “Thus, I refuse to say.”

  “Of course,” Amalia replied, and Reggie heard the cynicism in her voice. “How foolish of me.”

  “If you have courted ladies before,” Reggie asked slowly, “why are you not married?”

  Eastcairn smirked. “None have yet met my standards, Lord Thornhill.”

  “I am certain I will not be among those statistics, My Lord,” Amalia said, her golden eyes icy. “As I have no intention of being courted.”

  “We shall see about that, Lady Gallagher.”

  Chapter 10

  Fuming, incredibly annoyed by Eastcairn’s arrogance, Amalia left the gentlemen to their port in the drawing-room, no doubt discussing politics and women equally. Slamming through her chamber door, she found Edwina straightening from her task of pouring a glass of wine. Edwina immediately curtsied.

  Eyeing the wine, Amalia asked. “How did you know?”

  “You having supper with three unmarried males without your father present, My Lady? Please, do not insult me.”

  “I will not.” Amalia scooped up the glass and took a long gulp. “Pour one for yourself.”

  Edwina obliged by pouring another and refilling Amalia’s. “So, what happened?”

  “What happened? That arrogant, insufferable Eastcairn declared he will court me whether I want it or not.”

  “You know how to curb his ambitions.”

  Amalia instantly perked up. “How?”

  “Get married.”

  Drooping, Amalia sank into an armchair, staring at the fire burning on the hearth. “Is that the best you can do? Just whom am I supposed to marry, Ed?”

  “Lord Thornhill.”

  Snorting, Amalia scoffed. “He does not love me. He is my friend and only that. I want true, romantic love. Is that too much to ask for?”

  “No.” Edwina sat beside her, wine glass in her hand. “But I also think you are seeking it in all the wrong places.”

  “Half the time, I do not know what you are talking about.”

  Edwina leaned forward. “You think you will find it in every passing stag, My Lady. Seek what is in front of your face.”

  “Reggie can never love me that way, and you know it.”

  “Can you love him ‘that way’?”

  Staring into the blaze, Amalia pondered. “I do not know. I never thought of him as, well, a lover. A husband.”

  “How do you think of him, My Lady?”

  “As Marshall’s friend. My friend.”

  “And what is necessary for true love to happen? What comes first?”

  “I do not know.” Amalia sipped her wine, already knowing she had just lied. She ducked her head, amending her answer. “Friendship, I suppose.”

  “Exactly, My Lady. Who better to have as your husband than your best friend? Who else will love you as you want and deserve?”

  Feeling, and instantly suppressing, the urge to throw her glass into the fire, Amalia replied, angry. “He does not love me
like that. It will never happen, Ed.”

  She felt Edwina’s emotional withdrawal from her and regretted what she had said. Yet, she could not find any reason to retract it.

  “Whatever you say, My Lady.”

  Amalia closed her eyes. “Please, Ed. Do not do that. I am sorry. You are my only friend. I just cannot believe that Reggie could, or ever would, love me the way I want.”

  “More wine, My Lady?”

  “No.” Amalia withdrew her wineglass and hugged it close to her body. “I cannot get drunk now, not with Father sick and Eastcairn pressuring me. I need to be on my toes come morning.”

  “I will turn your bed down, My Lady.”

  When Edwina vanished into her bedroom, Amalia wanted to weep, but her eyes remained dry, her heart hard. Get well, Father, I need you. Please do not die, I cannot withstand another blow to my heart. Wake up and tell me what I should do.

  The Duke did not wake up, and Amalia recognized the sheer panic in Mr. Hill’s eyes. As though he feared his own life was on the line for failing to cure His Grace. That expression, his intense worry, filled Amalia with her own grief and despair. Sitting beside him, holding his limp hand, she let the tears slide unchecked down her cheeks.

  “Do not leave me, Father,” she pleaded softly. “I need you. Please stay with me a while longer.”

  Her father shifted on the bed, his brows furrowing, as though he had heard her. Perhaps he had, in some way. “Come back, Father.”

  “I dare not bleed him again, My Lady,” Mr. Hill said from her side. “He is too weak.”

  “Does he wake up at all?”

  “At times. Just long enough for me to get some broth and my tea infusions into him, then he sleeps again.”

  “That is encouraging, is it not?” she asked, glancing at him.

  “Indeed, My Lady. If I could simply diagnose what disease it is, I might be able to find a cure. But it matches nothing I can find.”

  “Please keep trying, Mr. Hill.”

  “I certainly will.”

  Unwilling to leave her father, yet finding it useless to stay beside him, Amalia, at last, decided she needed to get out of the house for a while. After asking Perkins to assign a pair of footmen to accompany her, she went upstairs to her rooms to find a light cloak to wear. Edwina, busy caring for Amalia’s gowns, glanced up, then curtsied.

  “My Lady, how is your father?”

  “The same. I am going out for a walk, Ed. Will you come with me?”

  “Certainly, if you wish.”

  Together, they walked down the stairs and found two bowing footmen in identical livery and powdered wigs awaiting them. The late morning air felt crisp and fresh and smelled of newly cut grass. Little traffic rolled up and down the wide avenue lined with trees and sprawling lawns while gardeners pruned hedges and rosebushes on estates Amalia strolled past.

  “Can you believe summer is almost over?” Amalia mused as she ambled along the sidewalk.

  “I think I am ready for cooler weather,” Edwina replied. “You know I do not do well in the summer heat.”

  “Remember how we used to play in the snow?” Amalia asked with a grin. “I shoved snow down your bodice, and oh, how you danced and shrieked. That was so funny.”

  “Hmm,” Edwina answered, her tone thoughtful. “I do not recall ever getting my revenge on you for that. Time does not count when one must obtain one’s vengeance.”

  Amalia laughed. “And you plan to do what? Push snow down my bodice this winter?”

  Edwina stared at her, her eyes wide. “Just why would I announce my plans to my victim? You will feel my wrath at the appropriate time.”

  “I cannot wait. So, have you seen your fiancé lately?”

  “He is not my fiancé until such time as I accept his proposal, and I have not yet done that.”

  “I really wish you would, Ed. I so want to see you happy.”

  “I am happy.”

  “You know what I mean. Married happy. With child happy.” Amalia suddenly gasped, pausing to stare at Edwina. “Oh, to see you with child, Ed, that would be so wonderful.”

  Edwina scowled. “Let us not get ahead of ourselves, My Lady. You go first, remember?”

  Amalia walked on. “You know that will not happen for a long while. You should not wait on me to begin the next step of your life.”

  “That is my decision, is it not? Stephen is willing to wait, and my gut tells me your marriage is not as far off as you think.”

  “Ah, yes, Father’s impending death and my subsequent marriage to whoever beats the others in the race for my hand.” Despite her best efforts, she could not keep the bitterness from her voice.

  “My Lady, that is not what I meant, and you know it. The Duke will recover, I feel it in my bones.”

  “Do your bones tell you who my prospective husband is?”

  “Not yet. But he is out there, waiting for you with not a simple ambition but with love.”

  Amalie gazed around at the beautiful scenery around her, the elegant homes belonging to some of the wealthiest people in England, her heart heavy. “I just wish I knew what to do, Ed.”

  “You will know it when the time comes.”

  “While you may be correct, that is not exactly comforting right now.”

  “I know. Just trust your instincts, all right?”

  Smiling at her friend, Amalia started to reply, but a commotion from behind them spun them both around, startled. A man in the drab grey and brown clothes of a common laborer, a cloth cap on his head, bolted across the wide avenue. Nearly run down by a hansom cab, its driver yelling at him to watch where he was going, he vanished down a side street.

  “Lady Gallagher, are you well? Are you hurt?”

  From behind the footmen, Lord Eastcairn shoved his way between them, his blue eyes wide with worry and concern. Baffled, Amalia glanced around and saw nothing at all amiss. “Of course, My Lord. Whatever is the matter?”

  “That man there,” he pointed toward the street where the laborer vanished, “he was following you with the intent to harm you.”

  Shocked, she gazed in the direction Eastcairn pointed. “How can you be sure?”

  “Let us just say I am somewhat familiar with criminal types,” he replied, frowning. “I am involved with the courts in Scotland. I am quite certain he meant to either kill or maim you, and I tried to capture him. He, however, was as slippery as an eel and escaped.”

  Amalia shared a long look with Edwina, then said, “I thank you for your timely intervention, My Lord. But how is it you came to be right here at this particular moment?”

  “I was not following you, if that is what you are wondering,” Eastcairn replied with an easy grin. “I was merely traveling in the same direction as you. Naturally, I could not permit him to commit any evil upon your person.”

  “Of course.”

  “May I accompany you and ask where you are bound?”

  “We are just out for a stroll, My Lord,” Amalia replied. “We will turn back now and will not impose upon you further.”

  Something flickered deep in his eyes. Then he blinked and smiled cheerfully. “Then I will see you later, Lady Gallagher.”

  Remembering her manners Amalia curtsied and watched him stroll on down the street, confused. “What just happened?” she murmured.

  “Nothing good, My Lady,” Edwina replied darkly. “Nothing good.”

  Reggie stared at Amalia as she told him the story of the incident, and Eastcairn’s perfectly timed rescue. “That is not possible, Amalia,” he said, his brows furrowed. “A common laborer would hardly attack an attended lady in this part of London. If you were strolling along the streets of Whitechapel, perhaps, but not here, and certainly not in broad daylight.”

  “I know, Reggie,” she replied, gazing at the Duke’s sleeping countenance as she sat once more beside his bed. “That is what is so strange about it all. Eastcairn is in the perfect place to rescue me from an attack that should never have happened in the first place?”
>
  On the far side of the Duke’s bed, Reggie studied her profile. “Could he have engineered it?” he asked softly.

  Astounded, Amalia gazed at him. “Whatever for?”

  “To make you more amenable to his courtship proposal.”

  “He would not stoop to doing something so dishonorable,” she snorted.

  How can you be so certain? Reggie did not say that thought aloud, for even to him, it seemed preposterous for a landed Lord, an Earl, to hire a man to attack a woman just so he can save her. Reggie frowned at his own thought. Just so he could save her. Hmm.

  On the bed, the Duke stirred, and his eyes opened. He groaned softly as both Reggie and Amalia leaned forward over him.

  “Father?” Amalia asked, her tone hushed. “You are awake.”

  A tiny smile quirked His Grace’s lips upward. “Daughter,” he whispered. “It is good to see you.”

  “You as well, Father. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

  “Thirsty. Might I have some water?”

  Reggie went to the sideboard immediately and poured water from a pitcher into a glass. Bringing it to Amalia, he stood by, hope at the Duke’s apparent recovery filling him. Amalia helped her father to drink by holding the glass to his lips. At last satisfied, her father lay his head back down.

  “Thank you.”

  “You should eat, Father,” Amalia told him. “You need nourishment to get well again.”

  “I am not hungry.” His eyes met Reggie’s, and he smiled again. “Reginald. Are you looking after my daughter?”

  “Yes, indeed, Your Grace. I will always be there for her as well as you.”

  “Good.” The Duke closed his eyes. “She needs you.”

  “And we both need you. Amalia is right, you need to eat.”

  “I will accept some broth. Will you be so good as to order some for me?”

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  As Amalia held her father’s hand, Reggie went into the other room and discovered Mr. Hill dozing in a chair. He gently shook the physician awake and said, “His Grace would like more broth, Mr. Hill.”