“I don’t give a damn about saying goodbye,” Thaddeus stated.
“Better do it anyway,” His Grace advised. “When my sister recommends something, she’s usually right. If that drink will soothe your father on his way, then it would be well that he drank it.”
They walked through several corridors and over to another wing of the castle. The duke paused outside a door. “Your father had delusions of grandeur, so we put him in a chamber that once housed King Henry VIII. Will you remember how to make your way back?”
“I believe I shall retire for the night.”
His Grace looked surprised. “The family will all wait up for the baby. The men are in the billiard room, if you’d like to join them there.”
Thaddeus absorbed his words: He was part of a family now.
“Except for Devin,” the duke continued, “who insisted on staying by his wife’s bedside. It’s by way of a family tradition.”
Thaddeus flinched, and the duke guffawed. “No need to follow suit! I will say, though, that the memories of seeing my last three be brought into the world are among my most treasured.”
“Right,” Thaddeus said.
“No need to consider it now. Death first, then life.”
Thaddeus took a breath and pushed open the door.
Henry VIII’s bedchamber was papered in strawberry-colored silk. Squarely in the middle of the room was a large bed, topped with a cupola, not unlike that of the monopteron on the island, except that was shaped from marble and this was gilt, decorated with spiky turrets. Fringed strawberry-colored silk cascaded from the cupola, easily twice the amount of fabric that surrounded his own bed.
His father lay facing the door on a pile of white pillows, the wine-stained ermine throw covering his feet.
A footman in Lindow livery sat in the corner; as Thaddeus entered he rose, nodded, and quietly left the room.
“Who’s there?” his father called in a scratchy voice.
“It is I, Father,” Thaddeus said, coming to stand at his right side.
The room was blazing with lit candelabra, but his father squinted. “I can’t see well.” He pointed a shaking hand. “Is that the syrup I’m supposed to drink?”
“Yes,” Thaddeus said. “A soothing tonic, I understand.”
“That poker of a woman said it would ease the way. I’m dying, blast take it,” his father growled. “Might as well go out drunk.”
Thaddeus held the glass steady at his father’s mouth.
“Off with you,” the duke growled after he finished. “I’ll not have you stealing my letter if I close my eyes. I’ve left instructions with my valet. I can’t breathe with you standing over me like a vulture waiting to pick clean my corpse.”
“I would never steal your letter,” Thaddeus told him. He laid his hand over his father’s thin, veined one. “I respect the fact that you traveled here, in your last days, in an effort to ensure the well-being of your family.”
His father began coughing, the hacking noises softer than earlier in the evening. He was losing strength.
“I will take care of my siblings,” Thaddeus said. “I swear it. The boy will go to Eton.”
“They don’t take ba-bastards,” his father panted. His eyes were closed. “I can’t breathe with you here, with all your rectitude and honor.”
Thaddeus nodded, even though the duke couldn’t see it, and removed his hand. “Eton will accept my half brother, no matter his parentage. Goodbye, Father.”
The duke opened his eyes and cast such a look of flickering dislike that Thaddeus almost recoiled. “You never understood, did you?”
“No,” Thaddeus said. “No, I never did.”
“You’re so bloody perfect,” he growled. “A shining example of English honor, that’s what they all tell me. The best man—pah! You never faced a true challenge. You never failed, so how hard could it have been for you to succeed?”
The room fell into silence, with only the man’s belabored breathing to be heard.
“You were my greatest challenge so far,” Thaddeus said, finally. “And I failed. From my childhood, you made it clear that I had failed.”
The duke didn’t open his eyes, so after another moment or two, Thaddeus left.
He was surprised to find the Duke of Lindow waiting for him, leaning against the wall.
“Said your last words?” His Grace asked.
Thaddeus nodded. He wasn’t able to speak; his father’s last, bitter speech was stuck to him like a cobweb one blunders into in the dark.
Lindow scowled at him. “A contemptible bastard to the end, was he?”
“I gather he resented my accomplishments, such as they are,” Thaddeus said. “Which I attained in order to please him.”
“You are true gold,” Lindow said. “A man, an honorable man, and he wasn’t. Never was, even when he was a boy. I remember him as a peevish lad who could scarcely ride a horse and never showed interest in anyone other than himself.”
“I see,” Thaddeus said.
The duke’s shoulder bumped against his and an arm curved around his shoulders. “Hate to say it about a man’s father, but you’re better off without him. For one thing, your mother can marry Murgatroyd, who is a good man.”
“I agree.”
“Couldn’t do better,” His Grace confirmed. “Neither could you, with my Joan.” There was just the faintest emphasis in his voice.
Thaddeus met his eyes. “I know that.”
Chapter Twenty-two
So far this year, Joan had witnessed the birth of two babies, since Aunt Knowe served as midwife for all those living in and around the castle. In neither case did she feel more than desperate sympathy for the mother and a slight aversion to the ugly little human who caused all the pain and mess.
Viola’s baby was the exception.
Birth was very different when you loved every person in the room, and the birthing mother was your dearest sister. She grew misty-eyed watching Devin embrace his wife, tears standing unashamedly in his eyes. She hugged her stepmother, who was sobbing with happiness. When Aunt Knowe brought back little Otis, washed and sleepy, Viola beckoned to her, and Joan crawled onto the bed to admire him.
“He’s lovely, Joan,” Viola whispered. “Just look at how perfect his toes are!”
“Oh, Viola, he looks just like you,” Joan said. “That’s your bottom lip.”
Devin bent over and kissed his son’s forehead. “Otis,” he said softly, running a finger down his cheek. “Hello, my boy.”
“Named after my Ophelia?” Joan asked. “Lucky Otis!” She rolled off the bed and nudged her brother-in-law to take her place.
Viola nodded. “Your Otis talked Devin into courting me, you know.”
“I didn’t need convincing,” Devin said, a hint of a growl in his voice. “But Otis is a brother to me.”
“Of course you didn’t need convincing,” Viola said, leaning over to rub her cheek against her husband’s shoulder. “You were dazzled by my mouselike self, popping out from behind the curtains.”
“No, I was dazzled by the sudden appearance of the funniest, most beautiful woman in the world,” Devin responded, his voice deep with love. “My future wife and mother of my son.”
“May I fetch your stepfather, dear?” the duchess asked. “Hugo has been waiting in the corridor.”
“Is Thaddeus with him?” Joan asked.
Aunt Knowe bustled forward. “Neither are in the hallway any longer; my brother sent a message that they retired to the billiard room. Devin will bring little Otis downstairs to meet the men in his family in good time.”
“Thaddeus is with them?” Joan asked.
Aunt Knowe nodded. “He made his goodbyes to his father. Perhaps you should join him, dear.”
Joan glanced back at the bed where Viola and Devin leaned over a little scrap of humanity, their eyes shining. “Baby Otis is perfect, isn’t he?”
Aunt Knowe put a hand on her cheek. “Just as beautiful as your baby will be.” She l
eaned in. “The clocks on your right stocking are running up the inside of your leg. Correct that before you visit the billiard room, unless you want your brothers to tease you for the next decade or so.”
Her rich laughter drifted into the corridor. Joan paused and then ran toward her own bedchamber. To be blunt, she had to beat Death himself to the Duke of Eversley’s bed if she wanted to carry through her plan and retrieve that horrible letter.
Thankfully, her maid was in her chamber and helped her quickly undress. “I need my prince’s costume,” Joan explained, hopping on one foot to pull off her stocking before her maid noticed her disheveled clothing.
Sometime later, she glanced at the mirror. A young prince stared back at her, regal from the top of his hat with its fashionable green feather, to the exquisite silver embroidery on his cuffs, to the diamonds on his shoe buckles.
She turned to the jewelry box on her dressing table, selecting a circlet of diamonds that she had been given by Aunt Knowe when she turned eighteen. She draped it over her neck cloth.
“That’s right odd looking, given as you’re dressed as a man,” her maid objected.
“I need to sparkle,” Joan told her. “Could you please hand me the diamond pin?”
“The one your aunt said was garish?” her maid asked.
“Yes, that one,” Joan said. She pinned it onto her hat, directly in front where it couldn’t be overlooked.
“Odd,” her maid muttered.
“Should I pin more diamonds to my coat?” Joan asked. “I need to look regal. I could run next door and borrow something from Viola.”
“The only thing left is to put a crown on top of your hat,” her maid said. “You look as if you’d emptied out of one of the goldsmiths’ shops in Cheapside.”
“Regal?” Joan insisted.
“Not that I’ve ever seen a king, but I suppose.”
Joan dropped a kiss on her cheek. “Thank you! You needn’t stay up. I can shed this coat without any help.”
She set out at a gallop for Henry VIII’s bedchamber, only slowing when she reached the right corridor. She pushed open the door and found the chamber empty but for the patient. It was blazing with candlelight, and the Duke of Eversley looked gaunt and gray against his white pillows.
He was still alive; she could hear his breathing. As Joan walked over to him, his eyes opened.
Joan held her breath, but he showed no sign of recognizing her. Instead, he craned his neck and wheezed, “Who are you?”
“Recognize us not?” she said, dropping her voice several octaves and putting on her Prince Hamlet expression.
“Said that I didn’t,” Eversley replied querulously. “There’s a cold glitter about you. Have you come to take my soul? Forgot your black cloak and scythe?”
“No, no,” Joan said hastily.
“Your coat’s old-fashioned,” he said nastily. “What are you doing in my chamber if you’re not hiding a scythe behind your back?”
“You are in our chamber,” she intoned, pitching her voice even lower.
“A ghost,” the duke exclaimed. “I never believed in ’em. Not sure I do now, even with the outdated coat. I can’t see through you.”
“At this moment, we exist on the same plane, between life and death,” Joan told him. “I am as alive as you, and as dead as you.”
“Bollocks,” the duke said. He squinted again. “You’re never Bluff Hal, are you?”
Joan had never been any good at history. She was playing a young Henry VIII, but she had no idea what his nicknames might have been.
“Old Coppernosed Harry, the eighth by that name,” Eversley clarified.
“Names that must have been given to us in later years,” she said.
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen,” Joan told him. “On a wedding trip with Catherine.” That was when the real Henry VIII visited Lindow, his older bride in tow.
“You didn’t die for years after your first wedding,” Eversley pointed out, his eyes closing as if he were losing interest. “Can’t imagine why you bother to haunt this place. The current Duke of Lindow is a bastard, a virile bastard at that, with enough sons to populate a village. Given your deficits in that respect, I’d expect you to avoid this place like the plague.”
“We are here because you are not a king and yet kinglike,” Joan said, improvising madly. “Not royal and yet royalty. You are alone. We know all . . . for example, that you would prefer to be with your real family, the family of your heart.”
Eversley’s shaded eyes flickered at her, and for a moment, Joan saw the wicked mischief of Bacchus shining at her. But he reeled into a series of painful coughs.
“She . . .” the duke mumbled, once he caught his breath. “Can’t let them see me like this, dying. Spitting and pissing in the bed. Said my goodbyes.”
Joan’s mouth fell open for a moment before she snapped it shut. “It’s estimable that you traveled to Lindow Castle in your last day on this earth to ensure that your second family will be well cared for.”
Eversley’s laugh was more of a bark than a laugh. “Revenge,” he said savagely. “It can keep a dying man alive.” He fumbled under his pillow. “See this?”
Joan’s heart thumped. Crumpled now, it was the paper that Eversley had waved about at dinner. “We do.”
“It’s my revenge.” The parchment fell from his hands. “Read it. If you can. I never heard of a ghost who did more than throw dishes around when aggravated. I assume those are females.”
“At this moment, we are on the same plane of existence,” Joan reminded him.
“Balderdash,” the duke mumbled. His eyes seemed to be glazing over.
Joan ripped open the seal and unfolded the letter. Her eyes skimmed it quickly: “In the name of God, Amen. I, Andrew Cornelius Erskine Shaw, Duke of Eversley, of Eversley Court, declare that I married the woman known as my duchess only under duress and the threat of bodily harm, after having already wed the love of my heart in solemn ceremony. I declare my second marriage a farce and a desecration of the ritual of marriage; the man known as my son is a bastard, and my dukedom should be inherited by my legitimate son, Henry.”
“I see,” Joan said, folding the sheet again.
The duke’s eyes opened again, but only halfway. “Make certain it gets to . . .” The words were lost in a mumble.
“You can trust me to do the right thing with this document,” Joan told him.
“The croaking raven doth bellow for revenge,” Eversley said, his voice clear, if only a thread.
“Hamlet,” Joan exclaimed. “That’s from Hamlet.”
“I’ll be revenged on the whole pack of them.” His voice grated to a halt.
Joan waited for five minutes, but he didn’t open his eyes again, and his breathing was hardly audible. She touched his hand lightly. “Goodbye, Your Grace.”
She picked up the paper, tucked it in her coat, and walked out.
Chapter Twenty-three
The billiard room was crowded with tall, powerful gentlemen doing what comes naturally to men when they find themselves in company with limitless brandy: gossiping. For his part, Thaddeus had trounced Jeremy at billiards—a rare event—and retired to a deep armchair. He and the duke sat together in a comfortable silence.
Thaddeus occupied himself by staring up at the wooden tracery of the ceiling, where all the coats of arms of the Wildes were painstakingly detailed with gilt accents. A few others appeared there as well: that of the Duke of Wynter, for example. Since he was married to Viola, the new father was presumably no blood relation.
The duke followed his eyes. “We’ll add yours, the Eversley arms.”
“True or not?” Jeremy demanded of Parth on the other side of the billiard table, waving a glass of whiskey.
“True,” Parth said. He made a shot that ricocheted off three rails and rolled into the corner bag.
Jeremy gave a crack of laughter and turned around. “Lavinia has turned an entire chamber in their house into a museu
m for her gowns.”
Parth’s brows drew together. “My wife adores clothing. If she wants to turn our entire house into a museum, I will support her.” He considered. “Perhaps not the nursery.”
The door opened. Devin, Duke of Wynter and father of the newest Wilde offspring, stood there, his hair tousled, his eyes glowing. In his arms was a tiny, wrapped bundle. “Otis has arrived,” he announced, happiness visible in every lineament of his body.
The Duke of Lindow was the first at the door and took Otis in his arms. “Beloved boy,” His Grace said softly, kissing the child. “Welcome.”
Thaddeus moved to Devin’s side as the baby was handed from arm to arm, grown men cooing over the child with no respect for manliness. The Wildes were like that, Thaddeus had noticed. Fearless and unashamed when it came to emotion.
“Congratulations,” he told Devin.
Devin’s eyes never left his son, but he nodded. “I gather congratulations are in order for you as well.”
“Yes,” Thaddeus said.
Devin flashed a look at him before watching, narrow-eyed, as Otis was transferred from one uncle to another. “Here,” he said, starting forward, “watch his neck, you lobcock.”
Thaddeus melted into the corridor. Someday he would feel comfortable in the Wilde family, but not just yet. He turned left, intending to go to his chamber, and looked up in time to see a slender figure in green hurtling toward him. A smile curled his mouth as Joan melted into his embrace, talking so fast that he couldn’t understand.
“My father?” he asked, tucking her against him.
She pulled back enough so that he could see her face. “I have it, Thaddeus. I have it.” She caught her breath, panting. “See?” She stuck her hand inside her velvet coat and pulled out a folded sheet.
Thaddeus blinked. “How did you get it? You didn’t—”
“No, I didn’t steal it from a dying man!” she cried. “I’m not dressed as an angel either, so I didn’t frighten your father with tales of brimstone, though I have to say that he’s a horrid old man, Thaddeus, and he deserves whatever happens to him!”
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