An American Duchess

by Caroline Fyffe

  Emma stepped forward. “You recall seeing the envelope on the dresser when the dowager duchess brought you up to show you around?”

  “I do, yes.” She walked over to the dresser and glanced around. “And you’ve searched the drawers and the rest of the room?”

  “We have,” Beranger said, none too nicely.

  Emma followed Carmichael to the dresser side of the room and said, “As you know, I was in the library when I met you and then went out to the stable. If I could narrow down the last time it was here, that might help.” The enormity of what had happened filled Emma with such devastation a tear escaped and ran down her cheek. No one would take that letter except to hurt me. Can the dowager really be that evil? Or—a small voice asked, though she didn’t like to believe it—had Hyacinth somehow sneaked back into Ashbury and taken it for revenge?

  “I’m sorry I can’t help you more, Your Grace. The dowager duchess showed me your wardrobe and accessories. I was intent on remembering as much as possible for dressing you tonight. She and I also looked through your dressing table, and your implements for hair styling, nothing more. I’ll confess, I was concentrating on what she was telling me. Let me ask the chambermaid. She was in here today as well, changing your sheets and tidying up. Perhaps she’ll have something meaningful to share.” Her gaze traveled between Emma and Beranger.

  “Very well,” Beranger said, his expression sharp enough to cut steel. “Do that right away. I want that letter found. There is no other acceptable solution. It’s somewhere, and I want it back unopened! Do I make myself clear?”

  “Undoubtedly, Your Grace.” Carmichael backed out of the door and quietly pulled it closed.

  Her new lady’s maid was gone, but the devastation in Emma’s heart remained. Her letter had disappeared. There was a very good chance she’d not get it back. Wanting to spare Beranger the misery on her face, she turned to the window and gazed at the beauty of her new land, the familiar cloudy sky, the feeling of so many miles between her and Colorado. A moment later, she felt him at her back.

  He placed both hands on her shoulders. “We’ll find it, Emma,” he said softly. “I promise you that. I won’t leave a stone unturned. I know how much that letter means to you. I’ll find it if it’s the last thing I do.”

  She didn’t want him pledging something he couldn’t deliver. She was at fault, not him. The thick anguish in his voice was enough to bring her to her knees. He’d accepted a heavy mantle of responsibility by becoming the duke. She saw that daily in all the many decisions and plans that occupied him. She wanted to be a source of succor to him, not a source of stress.

  “The letter’s disappearance has nothing to do with you, my love,” she said softly and turned in his arms. “I should have read it weeks ago and then tucked it away in a safe spot. You’re not to blame.”

  “I am to blame, Emma. This is my house. This never would have happened if I hadn’t brought you to Ashbury.” With the tip of his finger, he gently lifted her chin and lowered his lips to hers.

  The kiss helped. Life would go on. She loved Beranger, and nothing would ever change that. Setting aside her worries to enjoy the moment, she ran her hands up his shirt, feeling his chest muscles bunch with anticipation.

  “We’ll get through this,” she whispered against his lips. “Nothing can change the way I feel when I’m in your arms.”

  Her statement put a little spark back into his eyes. He opened his mouth to respond, but took a staggering step back, reaching out as he wheeled away and caught the bedpost to keep from falling.

  “Beranger!” she screamed, the horror of the sight blinding her. The vertigo he’d experienced earlier that day had worried her, but he’d brushed the occurrence off so successfully she’d believed him. But now . . .

  She clutched his arm, as if she’d be able to keep him on his feet if his legs buckled.

  “I’m all right,” he slurred. “I’m just—”

  “You’re nothing of the sort! What happened? Are you light-headed again? Or do you have pain somewhere?”

  Oh, please, God, please. Don’t let him die.

  His gaze slid to the bed, and she helped him to its side, holding him with one arm and ripping back the counterpane with the other. With no words between them, he allowed her to assist him slowly onto the mattress, his eyes closed. Once he was sitting, she helped him lie back. Straining, she lifted his legs and tugged at each boot. Once his boots were off, and he was somewhat comfortable, she ran to the cord and rang for help.

  Returning to Beranger’s side, she kept up the litany in her head: Please, God, don’t take him from me. Please, God, don’t let him be in pain. I love him so much, God, please don’t take him from me now.

  Only a moment passed before Carmichael returned.

  “The duke is ill! Send his valet here at once, but first, tell Pencely to send for Brightshire’s doctor.” Brightshire does have a doctor, doesn’t it? A capable doctor with modern knowledge? “Send a basin of cool water and clean towels immediately, and ask the cook for some broth.”

  The woman stood there staring at the still form of the duke on the bed.

  “Go, please! There is no time to lose.”

  Carmichael nodded and was gone.

  Emma glanced back at Beranger. His expression gave little away. His eyes were still closed, but she knew he wasn’t asleep. Her throat closed painfully. The vertigo in the stable had been a warning. And now this. She should have paid more attention. Made him come straight back and lie down. Called the doctor then. Maybe all this could have been avoided.

  Her heart constricted.

  Then again, maybe Beranger’s troubles were just beginning.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Emma twisted her hands together. If only Lord Harry hadn’t picked this moment to go home. I feel so alone.

  The elderly doctor, bowed at the shoulders and practically blind, had just left the gallery, leaving Emma alone outside her bedroom door with few answers—and with even more fear and anger than she’d felt before he’d arrived. Could a person feel both emotions at once?

  The doctor, a sharp-faced man with a chiseled nose and pointy chin, as well as a forehead so narrow from brows to hairline that his appearance was of one who didn’t have a brain in his head, had been tending the Northcott family for years, and had an ego to prove the fact. Too many years, in her mind. Surely he couldn’t keep up with all the new science being discovered daily—he could barely see to read. Dr. Gannon’s office back in Eden had been filled with medical journals, dog-eared and rumpled from many perusals. Reading was a doctor’s best source of ongoing education. She wouldn’t trust a thing Sir Anthony Bellround said, even if she hadn’t taken a violent dislike to the man the moment they’d met. She’d had to fight her prejudice through his entire examination of Beranger.

  “His Grace seems fine now, if still a little dizzy,” Dr. Bellround had said once they were alone in the gallery, a mocking half smile pulling his lips. She’d been thankful he’d held his tongue until Beranger was out of hearing distance. “We’ll wait a few days and see what happens. Could be the strain of returning home. He broke his stepmother’s heart, you know.” His nose wrinkled as if the aroma of spoiled eggs was on the air. “I remember him as an irresponsible boy, and now . . .” The implication that he had grown into an irresponsible man was clear. “The only thing wrong with the duke is that he’s not used to the pressure of running a manor like Ashbury. It’s not something that can be learned in a month. Mother Nature has a way of compensating, like putting him to bed. Forcing him to stop and take it easy.”

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!” she’d blurted without thinking, and was rewarded with another look of disdain. Beranger was the most levelheaded and intelligent man she knew. “We’ve been riding, visiting, and catching up on the books, but—”

  He put up a palm, halting her speech, and tipped a bushy gray eyebrow at her. “You best leave the medical matters to me, Duchess, and go about your so
cializing. Your husband will be fit as a fiddle in time for dinner tonight, I’m certain. I don’t see why he isn’t up yet.”

  Her anger spiked. This man is a fool!

  “Thank you for your advice, sir,” she’d said curtly, then gestured to the stairway at the end of the gallery as a way of dismissal. She’d not use him again. Beranger was better off in her hands alone.

  Before the doctor had arrived, Beranger was able to tell her his chest was fine, and he had no pain. That he was just a bit light-headed now, and feeling better. He’d wanted to get up and sit in a chair, but she’d not allowed it. On and off, he lapsed into restful slumber while she paced the expensive Persian carpet.

  She returned to the quiet room.

  “Emma . . .”

  Beranger’s weak summons brought her rushing to his side. She dropped to one knee so she could be close to his face.

  “I’m feeling better,” Beranger whispered. When he wet his lips with his tongue, she brought him the glass of water from the nightstand and helped him drink, shocked at how weak he appeared. He might feel better, but he looked even worse.

  “Not too much, my love,” she said, gently taking the glass away. “Not yet. You don’t want to upset your stomach any more than it already is.”

  “It’s not my stomach,” he said, low. “It’s my head. Most of the spinning has stopped. Please don’t make such a fuss over me. I don’t know what this is about, but it’ll pass. I don’t get sick.”

  His gaze roamed the tall ceiling, and she wanted to cry. He was trying to figure this puzzle out as well.

  “I’m sure the doctor is correct in his diagnosis. The anxiety of coming home to England has overwhelmed me, as has finding Ashbury in dire straits.”

  “So you heard?” At least his hearing was still sharp. She was surprised he’d been able to hear them out in the hall.

  “Yes.”

  “Dr. Bellround is a fool with a head filled with cotton. He reminds me of a weasel.”

  Beranger chuckled. “You like him that much, huh?”

  “He’ll not be out again. I’d like to see his face when he learns I’ve hired a physician from New York. I don’t believe for a second anxiety of any kind could put you into bed. No, something else is the problem. And I’m not ruling out foul play.”

  He arched a brow. “Emma, just because there are rumors about my brother—”

  “You won’t end up like Gavin. But I don’t want you to worry about a thing. You’re to rest and nothing else. And that’s an order.”

  His eyes opened wide.

  “Not used to such language from me?” Emma said.

  “No, I’m not. But I like how it sounds.”

  “Good, because I’m not to be trifled with when your health is at stake. Is that understood?”

  He chuckled and then squeezed his eyelids together, contradicting his earlier assertion about feeling better. She was sure he was still spinning just as much as he ever was—and as much as she was with worry over him.

  Does this have anything to do with the questions Beranger is asking about his brother’s death? Or am I grasping at straws? She gazed anxiously into Beranger’s eyes, though he seemed content to just stare back at her.

  He reached out a shaky hand and laid it against her cheek. “My love.”

  Perhaps he’d read her thoughts or seen the despair in her eyes. Whatever the reason behind his caress, she leaned into his warm palm as she silently prayed for strength. And for his quick return to health.

  Life could change so fast. She felt tumbled and bruised, as if she’d been seized by a tornado. But she would be strong, vigilant. She wouldn’t let anyone hurt Beranger, or worse. She would be ready.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Tristen had to read the words on the note twice. Ashbury’s hall boy waited for a reply, his face red from running the distance between the castle and the gamekeeper’s cottage.

  “What is it?” his uncle asked from his chair by the window.

  “The duke has fallen ill, and the duchess requests my presence. She bids me come straightaway.”

  “But why you?” Arson asked.

  “I don’t know.” He looked at the boy. “Tell her I’ll come immediately.”

  The boy nodded and dashed out the door.

  “Does she give any more details? Has Sir Anthony Bellround seen him?”

  “There’s no more information.” He glanced around, wondering if there was anything he should take along. Why would the duchess summon him, of all people? He couldn’t imagine. “Will you be all right alone until Aunt Rose returns?”

  Uncle Arson stayed alone most every day, but today, when Tristen had returned from Brightshire and the bakeshop, his uncle had seemed more melancholy than usual. Tristen had been keeping him company over a game of chess.

  “Of course I’ll be all right!” he barked out angrily. “I never liked that doctor. I hope the duchess calls in someone from London. Advise her to do that, if she asks.”

  Tristen pulled on his coat and draped a scarf around his neck. Him, advise the duchess? Surely that was not the reason she sent for him. Should he take his rifle? The atmosphere around the estate felt edgy, and now this. But no, he’d leave his gun here, even though he usually carried the weapon everywhere he went.

  “And if you’re going to stay over, get word to Rose on how Beranger’s faring before she comes home tonight. I don’t like the sound of this so soon after his return. Something’s not right.”

  “I don’t like it either. Earlier this morning when we were in the livery, he became light-headed and almost fell. The episode shocked us all.”

  “You better get going. Will you take a horse?”

  He shook his head. “I can get there almost as fast on the footpath. I don’t want to take the time to tack up and then have to go to the livery.” They exchanged a long glance, and then Tristen hurried out the door, trepidation swirling inside.

  Arriving at Ashbury, he entered through the servants’ door and hurried down the hall past the housekeeper’s and butler’s private rooms. He wasn’t sure what would happen when he asked to be taken upstairs to the duke’s quarters. Would he be stopped? He’d never been past the servants’ hall and kitchen area. Alcott, the baker, told him where to go.

  The green door at the top of the servants’ staircase opened in a hallway outside several other large rooms. He heard the duchess’s voice ringing loud and clear.

  “No, you may not see Beranger. I’m restricting all visitors until he’s better or until I know what made him sick in the first place. The doctor gave me no reasonable answer, so I must take all precautions.”

  “But I’m his mother!”

  “Stepmother! Who’s never cared a whit about him from day one. Don’t pretend like you do now.”

  The dowager!

  “I’ve been duchess of Ashbury for years. You can’t refuse me!”

  The dowager duchess’s voice rang with disdain. She’d never spoken to Tristen directly, but he’d heard her voice a time or two. He’d not like to be on the receiving end of her scorn.

  “Watch me! I’m finished pretending not to hear the things you say to Beranger. Or ignoring your pointed jabs. Since his return, he’s been nothing but kind to you. He’s bent over backward to make you feel welcome—in his home! He’s protected you from slander when the awkward circumstances of your marriage, and your illegitimate son, became known. Funny how the tables were turned, isn’t it? I’ve never before met a woman as spiteful. And you’re a stepmother, someone who is supposed to love a son, even if he’s not her own. You should be ashamed of yourself. So, no, you may not see Beranger until I give the okay. If you try to go against my wishes, I’ll banish you to Lily House. You’ll learn I’m not as forgiving as your stepson. You choose, Dowager Duchess, which it will be?”

  Feeling uneasy just being in the castle, let alone lurking outside the door to hear the dowager’s dressing-down, Tristen paced the hall. He didn’t like eavesdropping, but what was he to do?
The duchess had asked him to come straightaway.

  “And, before you go, there’s also the little matter about a personal letter from my father that’s disappeared from my room today. What do you know about that?”

  There was a gasp of astonishment from within. “You accuse me of stealing from you? How dare you!”

  “How dare I not! You were in my rooms unaccompanied. What else am I to think?”

  “Carmichael was with me the whole time.”

  Tristen was amazed that the dowager duchess sounded defensive instead of dismissive. The duchess had her by the throat.

  “Did you see the letter on my dresser?”

  “No, I did not. There was no letter in your room. And I do not appreciate your tone at all.”

  “Then you’re lying. Carmichael said she saw the letter on my dresser when the two of you went into our rooms. She distinctly remembers seeing it propped against a vase.”

  “She must be mistaken.”

  Deciding it best to retreat to the servants’ hall and send a note with one of the footmen that he’d arrived, Tristen had just turned on his heel when the dowager huffed out of the room. She stopped abruptly when she spotted him only a few feet away. He dipped his chin as her face turned bright red. From all he’d heard from his uncle about her bulldog toughness over the years, he would have thought she would not be predisposed to embarrassment.

  The duchess came out as well. When she saw him, her face lit with pleasure. “Mr. Llewellyn! Thank you for coming so quickly. I’d like you to stay in the castle with Beranger and myself until we can figure out what has brought on his vertigo. He had another episode not long ago like the one in the livery. Can you do that, please?”

  The dowager duchess glowered. “He’s the gamekeeper! He has a house of his own!”

  The duchess tipped her head as if just finding that out now. “Of course, I know that, but that has nothing to do with why I asked Mr. Llewellyn here. Thank you, though, for your input. Now, please excuse us, we have things to attend to. I’ll speak with you later.”