Despite the footman’s disapproving sneer, she refused to accept that they’d come all this way—enduring days of grueling travel—for nothing. She was no Belgian dwarf to be dismissed without an audience or tossed out on her…person.
She leaned forward again, giving the footman her warmest and most winsome smile. “I can assure you that we have no desire to waste the duke’s valuable time—or yours. I truly believe he will be interested in what we have to share.”
The footman’s skeptical gaze swept her from bonnet to boots. Although she’d worn her finest frock—a sherry-colored walking dress that complemented the color of her eyes—she knew her lace-trimmed collar and cuffs and matching silk spencer were at least three seasons out of date. And while the addition of a plume of fresh feathers had restored a jaunty air to her battered bonnet, her trusty kid half boots still bore the scuffs and scars of trekking through the rugged climes of Scotland.
Her pride chafed beneath the footman’s scornful gaze, much as it had when Connor had exposed the frayed seams of her drawers.
“Do forgive me, miss,” he said, looking decidedly unrepentant, “but I sincerely doubt a woman of your…standing could have anything of interest to offer my master.”
Pamela bit back a squeal as a pair of warm masculine hands closed around her waist from behind, lifting her clean off the carriage seat and depositing her feet on the ground with an ease that left her breathless. She opened her mouth to protest being treated in such an undignified manner, but snapped it shut when she saw the smirk vanish from the footman’s smug face.
He went stumbling backward as Connor emerged from the carriage, unfolding his imposing form to tower over the both of them. The footman’s wide-eyed gaze traveled up, up, up—past Connor’s broad chest to the impressive width of his shoulders, finally coming to rest on his intractable face.
“Perhaps you didn’t understand the lady,” Connor said, his velvety burr even more beguiling when contrasted with the footman’s clipped tones. “She wishes to see your master and she has no intention of standing out here in the drive all afternoon awaiting his pleasure. Nor do I.”
The footman swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his pasty throat. “But—but—His Grace is not receiving callers. He ordered me to turn you away.”
“And I’m ordering you to march right back in there and tell him we’re not going anywhere until he agrees to hear the lady out.” As Connor leaned over Pamela’s shoulder, the footman grew even pastier. “And if someone has to come tell us the duke has been foolhardy enough to refuse her again, you might want to make sure it’s not you. Because I can promise you ’twill take more than three footmen to toss me out on my…person.”
Lest there be any doubt about that, Brodie squeezed down out of the carriage behind them, the brass buttons of his own navy livery straining to contain his barrel chest. A powdered wig sat askew on his broad brow, one copper braid peeping out from beneath it.
As Brodie bared his gold tooth, growling deep in his throat, the footman scrambled backward, nearly tripping over his own buckled shoes in his haste to escape them. He was halfway to the door when he stammered out, “Who—who shall I say is calling, sir?”
When Connor hesitated, it was Pamela who answered. “Someone His Grace would very much like to see.”
Situated on the outskirts of London, Warrick Park had been the ancestral home of the dukes of Warrick for over three centuries. The main house was a graceful three-story structure in the Georgian style, its mellow red brick dressed out in elegant limestone. Tidy rows of white sash windows gave the mansion a far more welcoming mien than it deserved. Two Elizabethan wings from some earlier incarnation of the house fanned out from the structure on either side.
All of this understated grandeur was surrounded by acre upon acre of perfectly groomed parkland. It was clear from the cropped grass, clean-swept paths and neatly trimmed shrubbery that every effort was being made to subjugate the whims of nature to the mastery of man. Such a Herculean goal no doubt required a regiment of gardeners working around the clock. Pamela suspected that in the autumn they were probably ordered to catch the falling leaves before they hit the ground. She caught a glimpse of a Doric temple perched on the edge of a pristine blue lake through a sweeping stand of willows—another place where man had put his stamp upon nature.
As a pair of footmen escorted her and her party to the graceful portico sheltering the front entrance of the house, a balmy breeze warmed by the afternoon sun stirred the loose tendrils of hair at her nape. While she and Sophie had been traipsing around the Highlands, spring had arrived in England. Tender green buds misted the branches of the oaks lining the drive. A carpet of new grass bordered the drive—its baby blades the invigorating shade of fresh mint.
Pamela stole a look at Connor from beneath the brim of her bonnet. Did he appreciate the day’s genteel grace or did he miss the tumultuous beauty of his own home—the brisk winds whipping down from the north, the ever-present threat of rain, the tantalizing promise of the rainbows to follow?
There were no forbidding thunderheads here, only delicate white wisps of cloud drifting across the placid blue pool of the sky. Connor should have looked out of place surrounded by the trappings of civilization, but his long stride was every bit as confident as it had been in the Highland forest.
The footmen flanked the entranceway, sweeping open the tall double oak doors to usher them into a three-story entrance hall floored in Italian marble. A pair of grand staircases curved up to the second floor balcony, their polished mahogany balusters gleaming in the sunlight streaming through the enormous arched window over the door.
Pamela drew in a shaky breath. She was the one who did not belong here. She belonged backstage at some musty theater, safe from the glaring footlights and gawking eyes. It was her mother who could have played such a role with relish, who would have tossed back her golden curls and strode into this magnificent mansion as if she owned it.
But her mother was gone, Pamela reminded herself grimly, the curtain brought down on her life by an unseen hand before the final act was done. She lifted her chin, giving one of the footmen a regal look before handing him her parasol and gloves.
The footman from the drive nervously eyed the woolen folds of the plaid draped over Connor’s shoulder. “May I take your…um…blanket, sir?”
“I believe I’ll keep it,” Connor replied. “If the house is as chilly as your master’s hospitality, I might have need of it.”
Both Sophie and Brodie were gaping at the entrance hall in openmouthed astonishment. Pamela could almost see Brodie tallying up the value of the brass sconces and silver candlesticks in his head.
“Your manservant and maid are welcome to wait in the servants’ hall,” the other footman offered with a derisive sniff. “I doubt you’ll be very long.”
Sophie shot her a sulky glance, looking less than subservient. It had been Pamela’s idea to hide her sister’s curves beneath a plain white apron and tuck her glossy curls under a lace-trimmed mobcap. Being a bad actress was synonymous with being a wretched liar, and masquerading as a servant gave Sophie an excuse not to open her pretty little mouth and give them all away. Pamela had never been so grateful that they looked nothing like sisters.
“I’d prefer to keep my maid with me,” Pamela informed the footman.
“And my man with me,” Connor said in a tone that brooked no argument.
Brodie bared his gold tooth in a ferocious grin. Both footmen shuddered.
They followed the servants down a long corridor paneled in rich cherry wainscoting. Pamela was keenly aware of Connor’s presence at her back. She’d always felt as sturdy as a moor pony next to the sylph-like Sophie, but Connor had a way of making her feel as delicate as a dove.
She had hoped they’d be received in some gloomy drawing room where the low light might work to their advantage. But the footmen escorted them to a sunny solarium with tall French windows lining two walls and a flourishing jungle of plan
ts clustered in the corners. The wainscoting on the remaining two walls had been trimmed in gold leaf and painted a cheery cream.
“Miss Pamela Darby and…party,” one of the footman announced, his contemptuous tone making his feelings about their motley little crew abundantly clear.
Before Pamela’s eyes could fully readjust to the bright light, both he and his companion went scurrying off, plainly relieved to make their escape.
“Darby, eh? A rather common name for such a bold and reckless girl, is it not?”
Those acid tones ate right through Pamela’s confidence, making her feel as if they’d already been found out. As if a battalion of constables was waiting to spring out at them from behind the jungle of plants and whisk them all off to Newgate in a barred wagon.
“Do come in, Miss Darby. Since I have no intention of allowing you to ruin my afternoon tea, you and your party might as well join me.”
Blinking against the glare, Pamela moved toward the sound of that raspy voice, drawn like a fly into the glistening strands of a spider’s web.
Their host sat against the far wall in a pool of sunshine. At first she thought he might actually be perched on a throne, but another blink revealed it to be some sort of wheeled chair fashioned of wood and iron. Despite the cozy warmth of the room, he wore a shawl draped over his shoulders and a burgundy lap rug tucked around his legs. His hair was long and lank—pale brown with a startling shock of silver at each temple. His hollow eyes and gaunt cheeks betrayed the ravages of both illness and time, but his appearance might not have been so shocking were it not for the portrait hanging just behind his head.
A portrait of a young man in the very prime of life. Dressed in riding clothes, he stood beneath the leafy canopy of an elm tree with one foot on a rock and a rifle cradled in the crook of his arm. An adoring pack of hunting spaniels danced around his legs. He was gazing at the artist with a regal arrogance that might have been intolerable had it not been tempered by the teasing quirk of his lips and the devilish sparkle in his hazel eyes.
Their host glanced over his shoulder, following the direction of Pamela’s gaze. “Handsome devil, wasn’t I? And don’t think I didn’t know it, either. Very few women could resist my charms.”
Pamela would have loved to oppose his point, but when gazing at the man in that portrait it was easy to see how a woman could have fallen madly in love with him…and despised him with equal fervor for breaking her heart. Even though Connor wasn’t truly his son, she feared it was a quality they had in common.
She dragged her gaze away from the portrait to find its subject surveying her from beneath the mocking wing of one silvery eyebrow as he lifted a delicate china cup to his lips. There was something about his bright-eyed candor that invited her own.
Taking a deep breath and a dangerous chance, she said, “It’s an impressive piece but rather forlorn, don’t you think? It would be far more striking if paired with a similar portrait of your duchess.”
The duke choked on his tea.
Even in his diminished state, the duke’s presence was so commanding Pamela didn’t notice the woman seated in the brocade wing chair to his right until she leaped up and began to pound on his bony back. Hers was the sort of beauty that had bloomed early and faded too fast, leaving the bright gold of her upswept hair tarnished and the skin of her throat as fragile as crepe.
She glared at Pamela, her dark blue eyes snapping with indignation. “I realize my brother’s manners may have grown a bit rusty since his confinement, but that doesn’t give you the right to come in here and upset him with such nonsense. We do not speak of that woman in this house.”
The duke waved his sister away with an irritable flick of his hand, his eyes still watering as he coughed violently into a linen serviette. Pamela felt a pang of conscience when she saw the bright flecks of blood staining the pristine linen.
“Don’t mind Astrid,” he rasped out, dabbing at his bottom lip with the cloth. “My sister is just biding her time, waiting for me to die so she can claim my inheritance for that worthless whelp of hers.”
As the duke’s sister retreated to her chair, still eyeing Pamela with open enmity, Pamela felt her heart flutter with a dangerous excitement. It was all she could do not to shoot Connor a triumphant glance.
The duke glowered at her from beneath his silver brows. “If you must know, you cheeky chit, there are no portraits of my duchess. I had them all removed years ago. Now sit…sit!” He waved a hand at the settee and chairs grouped in front of his makeshift throne, dismissing her companions with a contemptuous look. “No point in wasting your breath on introductions. I find them tiresome and unnecessary since I already know everyone I care to know and many I wish I’d never met.”
Pamela settled herself on the settee. Sophie was about to plop down beside her when Pamela cleared her throat pointedly. Puffing out a long-suffering sigh, Sophie moved to stand at the far end of the settee, her hands clasped in front of her like a dutiful servant.
Connor gingerly lowered himself to a delicate Hepplewhite chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him. Brodie stationed himself directly behind Connor’s chair, standing at rigid attention like an enormous bewigged bulldog.
The duke nodded toward Sophie. “Why don’t you make yourself useful, girl, and help my sister serve?”
When Sophie simply nodded and moved to join Astrid at the tea cart, the duke asked Pamela, “What’s wrong with the chit? Is she mute or just as slow witted as she looks?”
“Neither, your grace,” Pamela replied, thankful she was a much better liar than Sophie. “She’s simply shy.”
The duke’s sister poured while a sullen Sophie distributed the cups of tea, then brought around a tea tray laden with pastries. Although Connor declined both, Brodie reached over Connor’s shoulder, plucked a cream-filled cake from the tray and popped it in his mouth whole, chewing with relish. Pamela winced as the silver spoon vanished from the clotted cream as well, disappearing up his sleeve without a trace.
While Sophie returned to her station beside the settee, the duke squinted at the drooping feathers on Pamela’s bonnet. “Although your dowdy ensemble might suggest otherwise, I suppose you’re fresh from Paris and itching to collect my little reward?”
Thankful to have something to occupy her trembling hands, Pamela took a genteel sip of her tea. “Not Paris, your grace, but Scotland.”
“Scotland! Why would anyone waste their time in Scotland? Why, the Scots are nothing but a bunch of skirt-wearing barbarians too ignorant and insolent to recognize their betters.” He cast Connor’s kilt a sly glance. “No offense, lad.”
“None taken,” Connor murmured, his eyes narrowed to glittering slits.
Pamela downed the rest of her tea in a noisy gulp. She knew she’d best plead their case before Connor stormed out or stabbed their potential benefactor in the throat with a pastry fork. A pastry fork probably pilfered from the tea tray by Brodie.
Resting her empty cup on the delicate pier table at her elbow, she said, “I didn’t waste my time in Paris, your grace, because I knew your son wasn’t to be found there.”
The duke bestowed a benevolent smile upon her. “And just how did you come to this rather unique conclusion, my dear? Based upon our limited interaction thus far, I can only assume it wasn’t as a result of your keen wits.”
Connor rose halfway out of his chair but Pamela steadied him with a pleading look. He sank back down in the chair, his smoldering glance warning her she would not be so successful a second time.
Pamela reached into her reticule, drew forth her mother’s letter and held it out to the duke. “Perhaps your wife’s words will speak with more eloquence than I can.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Archibald!” his sister exclaimed. “Why don’t you let me ring for the footmen and have these scoundrels removed? I know you’re bored half out of your mind and enjoy torturing them for your own amusement, but there’s really no need to waste your breath or your time by reading some rid
iculous forgery that—”
“Hush, Astrid!” the duke barked. “Still that flapping tongue of yours for five seconds and fetch me that letter.”
His sister reluctantly obeyed, marching over to Pamela and sweeping the letter from her outstretched hand. It was all Pamela could do not to snatch it back. The duchess’s letter might have cost her mother dearly but it was still all she and Sophie had left of her.
The duke scowled down at the letter, turning it over in his hands. The wax seal might have crumbled over time but it was still recognizable as his own.
Pamela held her breath as he unfolded the pages, knowing he would recognize his wife’s flowing script as well, no matter how blurred or faded.
When he was done scanning its contents, he crumpled the letter up in his fist and shook it at Pamela, his expression fierce. “Who was this Marianne person? Why would my wife exchange such shocking intimacies with her?”
“She was your wife’s dear childhood friend.” Pamela sat up straighter in her chair, unable to keep the prideful note from her voice. “And my mother.”
The duke leaned his head against the back of the chair as if suddenly too weak to hold it upright. “Dear God, she’s really dead, isn’t she?”
At first Pamela thought he was referring to her mother, but in the space between one breath and the next, she realized he was speaking of the duchess…his wife.
She exchanged a dismayed glance with Connor. It had never occurred to her that in some small corner of what passed for his heart, the duke might have been seeking news of his runaway wife as well as his heir. The realization made her feel even more wretched with guilt.
“I’m afraid so, your grace,” she said gently. “She never arrived at her grandfather’s cottage. She didn’t survive the journey to the Highlands.”
“I suppose I’ve always known it.” He sighed, his blue-veined lids fluttering shut over his weary eyes. “The headstrong minx probably died just to spite me.” When he opened his eyes again, they were as dull and flat as his voice. “Since it’s the reward you’re seeking to line your greedy little purse, I’m guessing you’ve brought me word of my son as well.”
Some Like It Wild Page 9
