Cheers to the Duke

by Sally MacKenzie

  Jo frowned at Livy, and then looked down at Freddie. Were his warm, brown eyes urging her to confide in the woman?

  But Livy wants to take over, Freddie.

  Freddie whined as if to ask why that would be so bad.

  He had a point. It would free her to marry Edward. She already missed him with a deep, deep ache.

  “Did he propose, Jo?” Livy bounced again. “Do tell!”

  And chances were good—hell, it was inevitable, really—that Livy would weasel the truth out of her eventually.

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Huzz—!” Livy slapped her hands over her mouth to muffle her cheer, and then said, calmly, “You should marry him.”

  “I can’t.”

  Even Jo heard how weak that sounded, how little conviction there was in her voice.

  “Yes, you can!” Livy said. “If it’s the Home that worries you, I can run that.”

  Livy leaned closer, almost vibrating with intensity now, and Jo was suddenly reminded of Caro. Caro had had the same energy.

  “You can trust me, Jo. I liked managing things while you were away. I know I can run this place. Let me try. Please? And then, if you don’t like what I’m doing, you can fire me. You’ll be married to the man who owns the estate, after all.”

  “But, Livy—”

  Livy swept on. “I want to do it. Please give me a chance.”

  Jo saw the passion and sincerity in Livy’s eyes, heard it in her voice.

  “I was getting bored in London, Jo. And, well, hard and cynical, I suppose. I told myself I was doing some good by giving women in need a way to support themselves. I tried to be careful, make it as safe for them as I could. I was very particular about the men I would take on as clients—I never wanted to send a girl out to some brute who would hurt her.”

  Livy stopped. Took a breath. When she spoke again, her voice still held passion, but she was clearly striving for a bit more control.

  “But now that I see what you are doing here, I see this is a better way to help women—women and their children.”

  Her gaze held Jo’s. “I know from firsthand experience how desperate these women are. I was one of them.” She pressed her lips together as if gathering her composure before saying, “I was once a governess in a viscount’s household.”

  Jo wasn’t really surprised. Livy was far more articulate than most of the women at the Home—and she could read and write, add and subtract.

  “But then I made the colossal mistake of fancying myself in love with the eldest son. I came from the gentry and had visions of marrying into the nobility.” Livy snorted derisively. “A governess marrying the heir to a viscountcy? That sort of thing only happens in fairy tales.” She half smiled and shrugged. “Or, well, here I suppose, with Caro.”

  She sighed. Shook her head. “I might have come to my senses eventually, but discovering I was pregnant hastened my enlightenment.”

  “Oh!” Jo hadn’t meant to say anything, but the sound—more of a gasp, really—escaped before she could stop it.

  Livy nodded, her voice grim. “I was tossed out into the street without a reference within hours of telling my lordling lover that he was going to be a father.”

  Jo bit her lip. She wanted to ask the obvious question, but didn’t want to poke a wound that, while years old, had clearly left a deep scar.

  She didn’t need to ask. Livy gave her the answer.

  “I lost the baby just a few days later.”

  Pain flashed over Livy’s face and she looked away. “If I’d held my tongue, no one would have been the wiser, and my life would have been very, very different.”

  It was, sadly, not a unique story, but every time Jo heard it, her heart broke a little more. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  Livy managed to regain her composure—barely. She looked back at Jo. “I’m not.” And then she glanced away again and swallowed before she continued.

  “Well, I am sorry about the baby, but I am not sorry my life changed. I’ve had far more independence than I would ever have had as a governess. If I’d stayed, I’d have become a mousy little creature, forced to lurk in the shadows, never seen or heard, only there for the children.”

  Jo could not imagine Livy as such a pale, fading female. Yet she was right. Jo had observed it herself. Oh, not so much with governesses, though it was true Miss Woodrow, while obviously well regarded by Pen and the earl, had never appeared without her charges in tow. But with servants in general and female servants in particular.

  Or perhaps the mouse-like role extended to almost all women who followed the narrow path Society had laid out for them. She certainly had far more independence now than she’d ever had as her father’s daughter or Freddie’s wife.

  Or would have as Edward’s duchess.

  Was that true?

  No. She felt confident Edward would never try to take her independence from her. If she decided to marry him, they would have a partnership, both in their marriage and in the operation of the Homes and any other charities they took on.

  And if I decide not to marry him?

  She, too, liked the woman she’d become.

  Something settled in her, and she felt a new sense of calm. No matter what happened, she would find a way to carry on.

  “Give me a chance, Jo,” Livy was saying. “I know I have a lot to learn—but I also know I can learn. Teach me. Please?”

  Livy did seem committed to the Home’s purpose, and even if Jo chose to stay in Little Puddledon, she’d need someone to run the new Home for mothers with sons.

  “Very well. Let’s get started.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Edward sat in his study going over the estate books.

  Well, trying to go over the estate books. His concentration had been shot to hell ever since he’d left the christening party.

  He checked his calendar again. Tomorrow would mark two months plus one week since he and Jo had gone their separate ways. Where was her letter? Had it gone astray? He felt certain she would have done as she’d promised and written him.

  Or had she thought he’d not been serious about his need to hear from her?

  No. That might have been the case if they’d been only lovers, but they were business partners as well. She needed to tell him when it would be best for him to come to Little Puddledon to explore the site for the new Home they wished to establish. She was too passionate about her charity not to follow up on that.

  Passionate . . .

  He heaved a deep sigh.

  He’d been doing that a lot recently.

  He’d tried to remain optimistic and cheerful, especially for Thomas’s sake, but here in his study he’d often let his spirits flag.

  That’s not the only thing that’s flagging.

  Hell.

  Thomas had chattered on and on about Jo as their coach had rolled home from Darrow to Grainger. He was happy the boy liked her, but he’d found it wearing to be encouraging when he knew nothing was certain. His restrained reactions had finally depressed even Thomas’s high spirits.

  And the boy had been more than a bit down pin ever since.

  He heard a scratch at the door. “Come!”

  It was Roberts, the butler, holding a tray piled with correspondence.

  “From the London house, Your Grace.”

  Jakes, the London butler, sent a footman down to Grainger every so often, once enough letters and other papers had accumulated to make the trip worthwhile.

  “Thank you, Roberts,” Edward said, going back to his figures. He’d tallied this one column three times and had got three different sums. He was bloody well going to get it right this time, even if it killed him. “Just put them down, if you will.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Edward saw the letters land on his desk.

  He did not see Roberts leave.

  Perhaps if he ignored the man, he’d go away.

  Roberts cleared his throat.

  Recognizing defeat
when he heard it, Edward looked up. The butler was regarding him with an odd expression. He couldn’t decide if the man was happy, morose, excited, or worried.

  “Is there something else, Roberts?”

  The butler took what appeared to be a sustaining breath and then launched into speech. “Your Grace, when Oliver—that’s the footman who came down from London—took the letters out of his satchel to hand them to me, they spilled all over the floor.”

  The man paused, giving Edward a searching look, but what the fellow was searching for remained a mystery.

  “Yes?” Edward said, hoping to encourage Roberts to get to his point since he clearly had one.

  “Which meant we had to pick them up.”

  “Right.” Now there was a news bulletin. What else had the man been going to do—leave the letters strewn over the marble tile?

  “Which meant I saw them.”

  There was an odd note of apology in Roberts’s voice as well as something that might be anticipation and . . . anxiety?

  Well, Edward could understand the anxiety part.

  Can I leap up and shake the story out of the man?

  No, of course not.

  But what could be the problem? Surely the letters had been sealed, but even if they hadn’t been, Edward could not imagine Roberts sitting on the floor of the foyer, reading his private correspondence. The staid, proper butler—who, just as Jakes, had served the previous duke and was far more duke-like in demeanor than Edward felt he was—would likely have an apoplexy if Edward even hinted at such a thing.

  The look Roberts gave him now was bordering on fatherly. “I believe you will wish to examine them at once, Your Grace.”

  Edward looked at the tidy pile, half expecting a viper to slither out.

  Roberts’s voice took on a distinct note of superiority. “While I’m quite certain Jakes means well . . .”

  Ooh, that was a low blow!

  “. . . being in London, he is not aware of Matters.”

  A cold finger of dread traveled up the length of Edward’s spine and settled in the back of his neck. Matters? What Matters could Roberts mean?

  “Er, right?”

  Roberts nodded. “If he had been aware, he would have sent the letter on the moment it arrived at your London house.”

  Edward gave the stack of correspondence another worried look. “R-right. Thank you. I’ll attend to it”—whatever it was—“at once.”

  “Very good, Your Grace. I will leave you to it, then.” Roberts started for the door, but stopped when he reached it to deliver a few parting words.

  “I do hope it is good news, Your Grace. I know I speak for the entire staff when I say we sincerely want the best for you and young Thomas.”

  Comprehension dawned.

  Zeus! It must be the letter from Jo.

  No other explanation for Roberts’s words, for his expression and tone, sprang to mind.

  Not that anything was springing to Edward’s mind at the moment. He felt frozen. He was finally going to discover if he could still have hope.

  He managed to nod, smile, even say “thank you.” He’d had years of experience as a solicitor acting calm when in fact there was a bloody riot going on inside him.

  Roberts bowed and left.

  Edward watched the door close, and then turned back to stare at the pile of letters. He would have thought Roberts would have put the most important one on top, but no, that was clearly not the case. He recognized Lord Frothingdon’s crabbed scrawl. The daft man wrote him every month, trying to get him to invest in one flimflam or another.

  He closed the estate ledger and pushed it aside, giving up all hope of addition and subtraction . . .

  Addition? Could Jo be increasing?!

  His heart beat a tattoo. It was too soon to know for certain, wasn’t it? Not that Jo would have given the matter any thought—she’d said she couldn’t have children. He shouldn’t entertain the notion. He’d been down that path before.

  But Helen had conceived.

  Stop it!

  It was nerve-racking enough to wonder if Jo would marry him.

  Just read the bloody letter.

  He sorted through the stack.

  Ah, there it was—a small rectangle, the direction penned in Jo’s strong, neat hand. It was a far smaller sheet than the letters she sent him about the Home’s business.

  He pulled it out, set it in the center of his desk, and pushed the rest of his correspondence to the side.

  How long had it sat at the London house?

  I should have told Jakes to look for it.

  Right. And send all his servants into a frenzy of speculation.

  He snorted. Whom was he fooling? He’d wager a princely sum that they were all, down to and including the stable boys and scullery maids, swimming and splashing in a sea of speculation already. Jakes, at least, must recognize Jo’s handwriting. Everyone knew Edward had been at Darrow’s estate for the christening, and they likely had surmised Jo had been there, too, as she was Lady Darrow’s good friend.

  Well, there’d been no need for guessing. Thomas had mentioned Jo on more than one occasion since they’d got back. Something like that would spread from country to Town like wildfire.

  Thomas had probably come right out and said Edward and Jo had shared a bed.

  He might be having trouble adding numbers today, but he had no doubt Jakes could put two and two together. This missive, so much smaller than Jo’s other letters, would have stood out like a robin in a flock of crows.

  So why hadn’t he sent it on at once?

  Jakes was no idiot. He must have concluded Edward would value discretion in this matter. If there had been even the slimmest hope of keeping this topic off everyone’s lips, Jakes would have tried to do what he could.

  Or perhaps it was simply that the letter had just arrived in London.

  I should have told Jo to write me here.

  But he’d not planned to stay at Grainger. He’d thought initially that he’d go on to Town once he’d brought Thomas here. But then the notion of subjecting himself to hot, crowded ballrooms, reeking of sweat and perfume, of becoming a matrimonial quarry again, a titled fox to the pack of debutante hounds—

  Ugh. He couldn’t make himself do it. So, he’d decided to stay here in the country while waiting to see if Jo could bring herself to marry him. If she couldn’t, well, then he would step back and reassess matters.

  You’re delaying. Read the blasted letter.

  He let out a long breath and then picked up the slim sheet, slit it open—

  Dearest Edward,

  You may be happy to know I have been working with Livy. We have many plans. If it is still convenient, we would welcome your visit.

  Faithfully yours,

  Jo

  He stared down at the words. Read them over. And then read them over again.

  What the hell did they mean? Plans? What sort of plans? And “we” would welcome your visit? That did not sound promising.

  It sounded very much as if his hopes were dashed.

  But it didn’t sound enough like it for him to be convinced past a reasonable doubt.

  He studied the few words again.

  There was that “Dearest Edward.” If Jo had wanted to be cold and distant, she could have made the salutation “Your Grace” as she had in the past. And while “faithfully yours” was indeed formal, she usually closed her letters “respectfully.” Did she mean more by this?

  And she had signed it Jo and not Lady Havenridge.

  Perhaps the mention of Livy meant Jo was open to delegating the Home’s day-to-day operations. Which could mean she’d decided to wed him, to become his wife and Thomas’s mother.

  Zeus, it would have been so bloody easy for her to just come out and write what she meant: “Yes, I’ll marry you” or “No, I won’t.”

  He’d been staring at the letter, trying to puzzle out its meaning for what seemed like hours when he heard the door open again. He looked up, expecting to s
ee Roberts.

  It wasn’t Roberts. It was Thomas.

  A worried-looking, subdued Thomas.

  Edward got to his feet at once and came round the desk to put his hands on his son’s shoulders. “What is it?”

  Thomas looked up at him, Helen’s eyes wide in his now-pale face. “I heard Roberts say Miss Jo had written to you, that he hoped it was good news.” Thomas stopped, swallowed. His voice wavered when he continued, “But it’s not good news, is it, Papa?”

  Putting on a false smile wouldn’t fool the boy, but Edward truly didn’t know what to say.

  Try the truth.

  “I don’t know.” He would feel his way, as he’d been doing ever since the midwife had put his infant son into his trembling arms. “Let’s sit down.”

  He walked with Thomas to the settee by the fire. He sat at one end, expecting Thomas to cuddle up next to him as he usually did, but instead, Thomas sat at the other, stiff and straight-backed, looking down at his hands.

  Zeus, the boy is growing up. What do I do now?

  It wasn’t a large settee, but it felt as if all of England was between them.

  Should he close the gap himself?

  No. Not yet. His instincts told him to give Thomas room.

  What would Jo say?

  He froze, shocked, and then almost immediately accepted the notion that his thoughts would turn to her.

  He’d had only himself on which to rely in raising Thomas all these years. For much of that time, he’d not wanted nor had he trusted anyone else’s opinion—and many people had been surprisingly free with their opinion. A shocking number of them, men and women, seemed to believe that just being male disqualified him from caring for an infant or a young child.

  Especially the women, and especially those who were volunteering to marry him and so save him from . . . his son?

  He’d sworn to prove them wrong.

  Well, to be honest, he’d been too busy trying to do his best with Thomas to give the naysayers much thought, except to know that he didn’t want any of them coming into his life and pushing him out of the way, taking charge of his child as if he were an incompetent nincompoop.