Heart of the Tiger

by Lynn Kerstan

  “The driver tells me the road for St. Swithin’s is directly ahead. I’ve no idea how long this will take, but I’m hoping to get it over with tonight. Don’t be concerned if we are delayed.”

  They had agreed his brother’s coffin should not be taken to Longview, and last night, he dispatched a messenger to the rector with his request for immediate interment. That meant she would be required to make her first appearance at the estate alone, but she knew how anxious he was to get the burial done with. “Take care,” she said, smiling.

  The shadow of apprehension in his eyes vanished. “You as well, Duchess. See that my instructions have been followed, will you?”

  All rooms that bore the stamp—or the stench—of his brother were to be closed off. “I’m sure they have. The staff will wish to make a good impression, and so do I. We shall dust and polish and make ready for the Master of the House.”

  “Duchesses don’t dust,” he said, laughing as she had meant him to do. “I’ll be there soon, and we can muddle along together.”

  For Mira, the first hours at Longview passed in a blur. Primarily she was astounded at the size of the estate—the Beast had bought up nearly all the land for miles around, excepting Seacrest—and the sullen resentment of the servants, who proved that some people, even when miserable, dislike change. They were certainly unimpressed by her, for which she could not blame them, but most of their rancor was earmarked for the new duke. Clearly they expected one much like his predecessor, or worse.

  Her own preoccupation was with Catherine, a coltish fourteen-year-old with the hair and eyes of a Keynes, and the temperament as well. She wished to be called Cat, demanded to know the whereabouts of her mother and sister, had no interest whatever in her murdered father. She was very like her uncle, Mira decided, especially when she relaxed enough to chatter about her obsession with horses.

  She liked archery as well, and was showing Mira the bow she’d carved and primed for herself when the butler, unhappy to be at work after midnight, announced that His Grace had arrived. Catherine went stiff then, and gathered up her bow and arrows and skittered off to a corner.

  Mira had sensed his approach for several minutes and looked up as he came into the room, flinging off his hat, greatcoat, and gloves and letting them drop to the floor. She could tell immediately that he’d been drinking.

  “Done,” he said. “Cost me a new baptismal font and an organ, and I had to help dig the grave myself, but he’s planted. Hari said a prayer. I said ‘Good riddance.’”

  Oh, dear. “We’re not alone here,” she said before he could go on. “You will wish to make yourself known to your niece.”

  He swore under his breath, glanced in the direction she had pointed, and gave her a rueful shrug. Then, his expression grim, he strode to the far end of the room and halted, hands clasped behind his back. “Lady Catherine. I beg your pardon. This is not how I should have preferred to make your acquaintance.”

  “I do not expect drawing-room manners,” she said, chin lifted. “I have no expectations at all. Well, perhaps one. I have been promised a good riding horse.”

  He glanced at Mira over his shoulder. “By Her Grace?”

  “She described your horse and said you were an excellent judge of quality.”

  “And by that, you extrapolate that I should select a mount for you? Or am I meant to redeem the poor impression I have made? You should know from the first, young woman, that extortion is wasted on me.”

  “That’s too bad.” She flashed a self-mocking grin so very like Michael’s grins that Mira nearly laughed. “It was worth a try. But while I have your attention,” she added a shade less confidently, “I would very much like to return to school.”

  “Indeed? Then discuss it with your mother when she arrives. Did you bring that here to shoot me with?”

  She lifted the bow and arrows. “I made these myself and brought them to show Aunt Mira . . . Her Grace. In this house, it has always been a good idea to carry a weapon.”

  “I can quite imagine.” He took the bow and ran his fingers over it. “Nice work. I’ve wanted to carve a bow for myself and haven’t come around to it. Perhaps you can help me get started.” He handed it back. “As for a horse, you’ll need to show me what you can handle. If you rise early enough, I’ll introduce you to Loki.”

  Her eyes shone. “I always rise early, to make up for going to bed late. Good night, Your Grace. And call me Cat, please.” She curtsied, after a fashion, and sped from the room.

  “There are four other Catherines in her class at St. Bridget’s,” Mira explained. “She’s very like you, don’t you think?”

  “She’s a clever, greedy, impertinent chit.” He dropped onto a chair. “I’ve been at the gatehouse taking a few wee drams with Hamman MacFife, who has been keeping her in his sights. She’s more than once led him a chase.”

  That explained why she had sensed her husband nearby for an hour before he came into the house. “Will you retain him here to watch her?”

  “Yes, and to watch out for our elusive friends. MacFife says there’s been no sign of two large men, one with a limp, in the area. The Runners I hired yesterday—was it only yesterday?—will start interviewing the locals tomorrow.”

  “You still think they will come here?”

  “I don’t know that I ever thought so. But I’ll take the necessary precautions, and that includes you and Cat securing an escort before you leave the property. No more excursions like the one that took you alone to Berkeley Square.” His gaze fixed on her. “Which, by the way, you have never explained to my satisfaction.”

  She’d been hoping he’d forget all about it. “I doubt I can,” she said carefully. “I felt . . . summoned there, as if I was supposed to do something, or be witness to something. The sensation was overwhelming, and I did not consider resisting it. I thought, to be honest, that it meant I would encounter the duke and have an opportunity to kill him. That was my greatest wish, had been for many years, so perhaps I was summoning myself.” She gave a little laugh. “Do you believe in mysterious occurrences beyond our own power to create or understand, but intended to guide us in some way?”

  The immediate “no” she’d expected did not arrive. He seemed to be looking past her now, his thoughts elsewhere. “One cannot live in India for any length of time,” he said slowly, “without wondering how it is so many people credit signs and portents, spiritual upwellings and otherwordly contacts. If it can be conceived of, someone or other is certain to believe it is true. But you should have this conversation with Hari. He is a warrior saint in the true Sikh tradition, although his beliefs encompass all benevolent philosophies. He claims to have prescient visions. On the other hand, he never understands them until they have come to pass, which makes them pretty much useless.”

  “Perhaps one day I’ll speak with him,” she said, rising. “It’s very late. You wished to keep clear of your brother’s rooms, so we’ll be staying in the old wing of the house. The servants opened it up and cleaned the suite of rooms that belonged, I think, to your grandfather. In the next few days, we’ll make them more habitable, but they’ll do for now. Shall I show you the way?”

  “I remember it,” he said. “I’d as soon sit here by the fire for a time. You go on ahead.”

  And she understood, from that simple remark, that in the future he intended to keep his distance from her. Even the slight intimacy of going in company to their separate bedchambers seemed beyond him, or perhaps he wished to spare her the awkward moment of an impersonal “good night.” In fact, she had been dreading that very thing, with the stab of guilt she felt for denying him what he had every right to expect from her.

  Step-by-step, she reminded herself. Perhaps she would arrive where he wished her to be, and perhaps she would never make it so far. But she meant to try. Tomorrow, when Cat helped her climb aboard a horse for the first time in a
dozen years, she would put herself to the first test.

  Under an azure-and-apricot sky, Mira set out for the stables in time to see her husband vault into the saddle, reach down for Cat, take her aboard in front of him, and set off in an explosion of speed. Heart in her throat, she watched Loki soar over a fence, land without breaking stride, and streak across the stubbled field before disappearing through a screen of bare-branched trees.

  She went back to the house for a solitary breakfast.

  An hour later, the small mare she meant to ride saddled and ready, she saw Loki and his passengers returning from the opposite direction. The duke paused long enough for Cat to slip to the ground, waved at Mira, and rode off again for what she knew would be a day-filling round of visits to tenant cottages.

  Bright eyed and grinning, Cat came to her on unsteady legs. “I have learned a great lesson today,” she said, with the frankness Mira had come to expect from every Keynes, male or female. “Loki is a splendid horse, and I wish above all things to have one just like him for myself. But I have much to learn first. I am not yet ready. And my pride can barely stand to admit it.”

  “I know precisely how you feel,” Mira said, watching the Duke of Tallant vanish over the horizon. I want him just for myself and I am not yet ready.

  But after a good deal of quivering hesitation, Mira clambered aboard the oldest, laziest nag in Kent and steered it around the fenced paddock for all of seven minutes. After lunch, fortified by sardonic encouragement from Cat Keynes, she navigated the paddock for eleven minutes. And then she selected a slightly livelier mare for her outing the following morning, which she took with Cat riding alongside her.

  Slow steps, taken one at a time. She no longer feared to ride, wondered why she had ever feared it. Riding wasn’t to blame for what had befallen her. It was what happened after she’d fallen.

  On the third night, she and Cat joined forces to convince the duke they required the purchase, or at least the hire, of more spirited riding horses for themselves. By the afternoon of the next day, he had provided them.

  Mira also got in a lot of practice at the archery butts. At first she used one of Cat’s older bows, but Hari Singh brought her a yew bow more up to her size and experience. The sense of accomplishment and physical exercise went a long way to improve her confidence, which she required in order to herd the recalcitrant servants into line. When she found the courage to send off several troublemakers, including the butler, morale greatly improved.

  Each day, the duke rode out early and came home late. She thought—no, she was sure of it—that he was deliberately exhausting himself with work. What leisure time he took for himself, the hour after a solitary meal taken in his study, he spent with Cat. He’d decided that while she was out of school, she should read history under his supervision, and fairly soon, Mira found herself jealous of the lonely young girl who had begun to thrive under the critical attention of her uncle.

  Mira was lonely, too, although her days were crowded. She missed her father, missed her husband’s focused regard, wondered when she had become so selfish. She had much more now than she’d ever had, and still she burned for what, God help her, she had rejected.

  Her remarkable husband. When he was in the house, she sensed his every movement. When he left, she felt him go, and when he returned, she knew without seeing him that he was on his way. But by her choice, because she could make no other choice, they lived together as virtual strangers. She profoundly feared she was going to lose him before she had gathered the strength to do what she must to keep him.

  Five days after they arrived at Longview, everything changed again. The carriage appeared shortly before sundown, flanked by an odd assortment of armed men who were taken to the kitchen for supper while the widowed Duchess of Tallant, her daughter Lady Corinna, and the Honorable David Fairfax, were made welcome by the new Duchess of Tallant.

  The duke was absent, as usual.

  Mira had misgivings about acting as hostess to Norah, as she insisted on being called, in what used to be her home, but the widow quickly put her at ease.

  “I am very tired,” she said as they settled together over a pot of tea, “but the adventure was a rare change from my incarceration here. I even enjoyed my stay in the Rookeries, although I was terribly worried about Cory at the time. She looks well, don’t you think?”

  It had been hard to tell. Bundled under a hooded cloak, Cory had gone directly from the carriage to find her sister, and neither of them had been seen after that. “Quite well,” Mira said. “Travel appears to agree with her.”

  Norah stirred sugar into her tea. “I believe so. At times, I feel I hardly know her. She would tell me nothing of where she went or what she did after running off, except to say I needn’t worry about her. But I do, of course. Ought I press her for the truth?”

  Mira had tried to prepare herself for this sort of question, without success. “At her age,” she said tentatively, “I expect she is disinclined to answer questions or take advice. There is no hurry, I think, to make decisions. She will reveal what she wishes, when she wishes.”

  “But not to me. I have not earned or deserved her trust. Still, we must look to the future. For the longest time, all decisions were made for us by the duke. Perhaps that has not changed. We have nothing of our own, do we? No home, no money, and a reputation that will close every door to us.”

  There was no self-pity in her tone. Only a practical evaluation of her circumstances, viewed from the perspective of the Beast’s wife. Mira took a lesson from that. Compared to this woman’s suffering, and Cory’s, her own troubles were insignificant.

  “We must all deal with the family reputation,” Mira said. “It will take time, but I expect we shall eventually be accepted in most drawing rooms. As for homes, you are always welcome at Longview and Tallant House. If you wish a residence of your own, that can be arranged as well, and there will be provision made for your needs. His Grace will agree, I am sure. We can do without many things, Norah, but not without our family.”

  Norah’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I have always been a proud woman, despite my circumstances. I cannot go to the duke with begging bowl in hand, nor do I wish you to do so on my behalf. But I shall go on my knees before him, if I must, for the means to create a decent life for my daughters.”

  “You will need to do no such thing.”

  “In the spring, Mr. Fairfax will travel with the Duke of Devonshire to Italy, and he has suggested we accompany him and remain there until the autumn. Do you suppose that would be possible?”

  “It sounds ideal,” Mira said with enthusiasm. “Far more exciting than waiting out the year of mourning in the country. And educational as well. By the time you return, the scandal of the duke’s murder will be all but forgotten. I think, though, that Cat wishes to return to school.”

  “Oh, yes. I meant only Cory and me.” The prospect had put color on Norah’s cheeks, softening her face, making her look almost lovely. “And . . . I don’t know if I dare say this, but I suspect Mr. Fairfax has fixed his interest on her. It’s early yet, too early to know if it will come to anything, and I doubt she has even noticed. Still, he’s a lovely young man. So considerate, and of a good family.”

  To cover her astonishment, Mira picked up a scone and begin to spread jam on it. Too soon. She will require time to heal, if that is even possible. But she could say nothing of that to Cory’s mother, so she returned the subject to their proposed trip, and where they might stay, and whether Devonshire would agree to take them along.

  That evening after supper, while David played for them on the pianoforte, Mira watched Cory select a chair apart from everyone else, and saw how she pretended to be working on a piece of embroidery while listening attentively to the music.

  Mira had been observing David as well, and how he behaved when in company with Cory. He was kind, of course, but that wa
s his way with everyone. He never singled her out, but he noticed when she required something at the table and quietly directed a servant to supply it. And when Cory’s attention was diverted, he looked at her with a gentle hunger in his eyes that Mira recognized. It was the way her father had looked at her mother, his beloved wife.

  She decided to encourage the trip to Italy. Cory must not seclude herself like damaged goods, the way she had done.

  The next day, when Norah and Cory provided descriptions of the men who accompanied them to Scotland, two of the Runners set out for London to organize a wider search.

  Hari, who had been gone for several days on the duke’s business, returned with news of her father. His breathing had noticeably improved, he was eating better and putting on weight, and except for missing his daughter, he was in excellent spirits. He’d even dictated a letter to her, filled with stories about the family who made him welcome while she and her husband enjoyed the first few weeks of their marriage.

  In fact, she had seen a good deal more of her husband before they were wed. But over the next several days, she crossed item after item from her detailed list, and saw that Corinna and Norah and Cat were drawing closer to one another, and knew that the time for her next great trial had arrived.

  Chapter 30

  The only thing Mira planned was what she’d wear, and that was simple enough. She’d precisely one non-flannel nightdress, the cream-colored silk night rail and dressing gown provided her by Lady Jessica, unadorned and modest so long as she stood perfectly still. But when she moved, and she could scarcely avoid doing so, it had a lamentable way of clinging to parts of her anatomy she’d rather not call attention to.

  Her hair would provide a distraction. After her bath, she’d washed it and brushed it out by the fire until it shone. No perfume, though, and no rouge where the ladies of Birindar’s household had applied it nearly three weeks ago, in preparation for her wedding night. Even the henna dye on her hands had faded, save for the barest outline of the coiled snake.