The Wyndham Legacy

by Catherine Coulter

  “But I am quite content as I am,” she said. “I’m pleased that my parents married, truly I am, but I don’t see how it will change my situation, which, in any case, doesn’t need changing. Let me assure you that the current earl, my cousin, Marcus Wyndham, also tracked me down and invited me to come and live at Chase Park. He also offered me a Season and a dowry. It was I who refused his offer. I do appreciate all the precautions you took, Mr. Wicks, but Marcus would have been pleased about what my father had done. He wouldn’t have tried to stop it. You should have told him.”

  “Possibly,” Mr. Wicks said, and sipped delicately at his tea. “However, when it comes to my fellow man, I’ve learned, my dear, always to tread on eggshells. Now, there is more to tell you, much more. The current earl is an honorable man from what I’ve learned about him. I’ve heard he’s also a trusted friend, a brave soldier, intelligent and loyal, but he is no longer an army man. He has new responsibilities, new expectations, new modes of behavior required of a gentleman of his class. Perhaps he is still a man to admire, a man to trust. However, it doesn’t matter now because even if he were so inclined, there is now nothing he can do about it. As I said, there is more.” He coughed lightly into his hand, then raised his head and smiled widely at her. “Allow me to congratulate you, ma’am. You are now an heiress.”

  CHASE PARK

  DECEMBER 1813

  Marcus pulled Stanley to a halt, dismounted quickly and tossed the reins to Lambkin, his favorite stable lad, who worshipped the ground Stanley trod his hooves upon. “Rub him down well, Lambkin. I’ve tested his mettle today. He’s blowing hard.”

  “Aye, milord,” Lambkin said, already patting Stanley’s nose and crooning unrecognizable sounds and words to the stallion. “Aye, my handsome beast, ye’ve given ’is lordship a fine ride, ’aven’t ye?”

  Marcus smiled and left the stable. It was a warm day, the sun bright overhead, and here it was the middle of December. There was much work for him to do, but he’d seen the sun shining into his bedchamber and known the work could wait, for being England, being Yorkshire, the beautiful weather wouldn’t. He’d said as much to Spears, who had merely nodded and said, “I have laid out your riding clothes, my lord. The tan riding breeches, I believe, would be most stylish this morning. And the blue superfine jacket. Your Hessians are more discerning of your facial features than that mirror.”

  “How did you know I would go riding?” Marcus shrugged into his dressing gown, a relic of his winters in Portugal, the elbows so shiny with wear that any day now the material would split.

  Spears merely smiled and said, “I have already ordered your bath, my lord. Would you like me to shave you?”

  “You ask me that every morning and the answer is still no, Spears. I refuse to become so lazy that I cannot even wield my own razor.”

  “Very well, sir, I have sharpened it for you, as usual. I found with your late uncle—he wouldn’t allow me to shave him either—that when finally he hit his cups with too much vigor, he was blessedly thankful that I was here to wield the razor for him.”

  “Thank you for telling me. I will, as my uncle did, wait for the overindulgence before I give over my throat for the razor. Incidentally, Spears, I heard you singing a song—I thought at first it was in my sleep, I was just on the edge of awakening, you know. I don’t believe I’ve heard it before.”

  “It’s a clever ditty indeed, my lord.” Spears smiled, then sang out in a rich baritone:

  “Napoleon gave us thirty days

  To bag our men and go away

  But he misjudged the soldiers’ guns

  And now he gives us thirty-one.”

  Marcus grunted. “Your voice is better than the song, Spears. At least it rhymes. Napoleon gave us thirty days when?”

  “To leave Berlin, my lord. Schwarzenberg had commanded Bernadotte to protect the city, but as you know, Bernadotte gave orders to abandon Berlin and would have if his subordinate Bulow hadn’t talked him out of it.”

  “Ah, but it isn’t all that accurate, Spears. There was nothing about thirty or thirty-one days. Well, perhaps there were a few jests about it, but it wasn’t a fact.”

  “It is lyrical license, my lord, surely the prerogative of a ditty writer. I understand this ditty writer is quite the popular man in the army ranks. The men are singing his little trifles as they march along.”

  Marcus was smiling, finding himself singing the silly little song when Sampson opened the great doors to Chase Park and bowed him inside. Marcus was at last used to the deference and the endless services heaped upon him by his staff. He thanked Sampson, as was his wont, and said, “I suppose Crittaker is awaiting me in the estate room, a woeful look on his hangdog’s face and a pile of papers for me to review.”

  “Yes, my lord, I believe that is quite accurate a description. I heard him shout some twenty minutes ago, shortly after I delivered your lordship’s mail to him. I immediately went into the estate room with the repellent thought that he had succumbed to an apolaustic outburst, which, I might add, would have been vastly inappropriate, but he hadn’t. It is evidently a missive of grave importance, my lord, and he had inadvertently, in his shock and surprise, given verbal vent to his, er, feelings.”

  “What the devil does apolaustic mean?”

  “It refers to the giving of enjoyment or pleasure. It is an act of self-indulgence, my lord, something to be avoided unless one is lucky enough to so indulge.”

  “You’re quite right, Sampson, I should have boxed his ears had he done it in my presence.”

  “Rightfully so, my lord.”

  Marcus, now thoroughly intrigued, didn’t change, but rather strode directly to his estate room, flung open the door and said, “Tell me, Crittaker, with no tumult or stewing, exactly what news made you vent your, er, feelings.”

  Mr. Crittaker said nothing, merely handed Marcus a single sheet of paper.

  Marcus read and read again, sucked in his breath and said, “My God! This is quite beyond anything I could ever have imagined. Do feel free to indulge in another fit of apolaustic behavior, Crittaker.”

  “Apolaustic, my lord?”

  “You heard me, man. Surely you know the meaning of apolaustic. You are my secretary, after all, and it’s your duty to be up on all meanings of all words I may use.”

  Crittaker was silent as the clock on the mantel, broken now for over seventy-five years. He looked to be in agony.

  “It appears that the Duchess will be coming to us shortly,” Marcus said, looking through the narrow windows that gave onto the winter-barren east lawn. “That is, she will be coming to us for at least a short time. She doesn’t say that she will remain. Though she will remain, if she isn’t completely stupid. I suppose I will see to it that she does remain. She is a woman. I am a man. She will obey me for I am the earl and her cousin and it is her duty to do as I tell her.”

  “Mr. Spears believes it will be a close call, my lord.”

  Marcus rolled his eyes. It seemed that his butler, his secretary, and his valet had formed a coalition. “The Duchess is proud, I agree, but she isn’t stupid, at least I trust not, in this particular instance.”

  “Spears said that pride many times exonerates a greater stupidity than a blank brain.”

  Marcus carefully folded the letter, slipped it into his pocket, and took himself upstairs to change his clothes. Well, Duchess, he thought to himself, at last you will have to come to me. It wasn’t until later that he reread the letter once more and focused on the final sentence. “Mr. Wicks wishes to see you on Thursday following my arrival. You doubtless already know this.”

  What the devil did his uncle’s London solicitor want? Was there more afoot than he knew? But what?

  She arrived at Chase Park one week before Christmas. The deadline had been the first of January 1814, but she had decided to have it over and done with. Badger stood beside her on the great front steps holding one small valise for her, and she was in the process of lifting her gloved hand to knock on the e
vil-looking lion’s head knocker that had quite terrified her as a child, but of course, she’d never let on that it had.

  Before her hand descended the door was opened and she was faced with a beaming Sampson.

  “Miss Duchess! Ah, Lady Duchess! What a pleasure, a wonderful event, do come in, yes, do come in. Who is this person?”

  “This is Badger. He is my—valet.”

  “Ah, well, no matter, doubtless his lordship will sort out everything to your satisfaction. He is awaiting you in his library. Do come with me, Lady Duchess. Your, er, valet—”

  “My name is Erasmus Badger, sir.”

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Badger, I will take you upstairs myself to introduce you to Mr. Spears, his lordship’s valet. Perhaps the three of us can come together later and discuss, er, things.”

  Badger looked at the Duchess, but she merely smiled that cool, aloof smile of hers. “Go along with Sampson. His lordship can’t very well slit my throat in his library.”

  She walked quietly into the huge intimidating room. Marcus stood behind his desk. He didn’t move when he saw her standing in the doorway, merely said, “You came.”

  She nodded. “I had to. I wrote you that.”

  “Yes, to be a Wyndham of Wyndham, you had to show your face here before January 1, 1814. But that makes no sense. You are either legitimate or you’re not. You are not without sense, Duchess. There is more, isn’t there?”

  She wouldn’t tell him the rest of it, tell him the real reason she was here. She couldn’t serve him such a blow. She would let Mr. Wicks do it. She simply raised her chin, saying nothing.

  Marcus grunted, threw down the sheaf of papers in his right hand, and came around the massive desk. “Congratulations on the marriage of your father and your mother.”

  “Thank you. I only wish I had known, just a clue, perhaps before—”

  “Well, now you do and you’re home where you belong. It’s nearly Christmas. I plan to take the Twins and Spears out to cut a Yule log for the drawing room. Would you care to accompany us?”

  He saw, perhaps for the first time since he’d known her, a leap of something very excited in her blue eyes, then it was gone, and she was nodding coolly, saying, “Thank you, Marcus. You are very kind. I apologize for being here, in advance, truly, I’m sorry if my now being legitimate is distressful to you.”

  He said, his voice harsh, “Nonsense, Chase Park is now your home, just as it is mine. If you hadn’t been such a stubborn twit, you would have been living here for the past six months instead of—” He broke off, shook his head, then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he said, “How did you earn money to keep that damned snug little cottage? And what about that very nice crystal?”

  “When would you like to cut that Yule log?”

  “In an hour,” he said, looking at her white neck, his fingers clenching and unclenching. This gown was stylish, a pale cream muslin, the neckline not to her chin, but lower, just giving a hint of her bosom, which looked quite enticing to him. “Dress warmly and wear stout boots. Do you have warm clothes and stout boots?”

  “No, I fancy I will have to wear only my shift and a pair of slippers. I have sufficient clothing, Marcus. Don’t worry. You aren’t my guardian. Also, I pray you won’t forget that you have only five years on me. In short, cousin Marcus, we are both quite young and indeed, too young to beset each other.”

  “What the hell does that mean? You’re still eighteen. I will very likely be appointed your guardian—despite my meager number of years—so I advise you, Duchess, not to raise the level of my ire any further.”

  “Your ire, Marcus, is of no concern to me. I’m here because I must be here. There is nothing more to it. And I now am nineteen.”

  “And will you deign to remain?”

  She gave him a small smile, an infuriating small smile, turned, and left the library. She didn’t close the door. He heard Mrs. Emory saying with surely too-great exuberance, “Hello, Duchess, and welcome! Oh, excuse me, miss, it’s Lady Duchess now. Let me take you to your room. The earl has assigned you the Princess Mary Chamber, and very lovely it is, you remember, of course.”

  “Of course,” the Duchess said. “I remember it quite well. It is kind of his lordship to select such a superior accommodation for me.”

  5

  THERE WAS SOMETHING to be said for a Christmas at home in the bosom of one’s family, Marcus thought, as he sipped the warm nutmeg-tart mulled wine, felt the heat from the burning Yule log upon his face. He turned then to look at his assembled family. His last Christmas had been spent around a campfire with fifty of his men, shivering in the Galician hills, wondering if the new year would bring them into battle and into death.

  He realized that he hadn’t bought a gift for the Duchess, not that she deserved it. Well, he had time, still five days until Christmas. Tomorrow, his uncle’s solicitor from London would arrive. He frowned, wondering what else his uncle could have done. Legitimizing the Duchess was a fine thing, he had no argument with that, though he realized quickly that Aunt Gweneth now looked at her a good deal differently. He couldn’t imagine why she would disapprove of the newly bona fide lady and approve of the bastard. Odd, that.

  Aunt Gweneth said, “Duchess, Marcus told us that you were living in Smarden, in Pipwell Cottage, with a man. Really, my dear, such a thing is most peculiar and leaves your reputation open to slurs, given your unfortunate antecedents.”

  The Duchess smiled a very small but pleasant smile, those long narrow hands of hers quiet in her lap. “I have never believed my antecedents to be unfortunate, ma’am, merely difficult in this tender society.”

  “Nonetheless, you have had a man living with you.”

  “Yes, his name is Badger, and he was my butler and my chef. He’s a remarkable man. Actually he still is my, er, valet.”

  “Still, it is not at all what one would expect from a lady,” Aunt Gweneth said, but Marcus, horrified at how prissy and prudish she sounded, and realizing that he must have sounded exactly the same way, interrupted swiftly, saying, “It makes no more difference, Aunt. The Duchess is here now. Nothing more need be said about it.”

  “But that man accompanied her here.”

  “Yes,” the Duchess said calmly, then remained quiet, sipping at her mulled wine. “Perhaps Cook should speak to Badger, for his mulled wine is the best I have ever tasted. He has secret ingredients he won’t tell anyone about. I remember my mother used to plead with him, telling him that she could sell the recipe and make us all rich. He laughed and nodded, but refused to tell her.”

  “I can vouch for Badger’s culinary expertise, Aunt Gweneth.”

  “Dear Marcus, the man lived with the mother and then with the daughter. He speaks the most beautiful English. Surely you cannot allow a man with such pretensions to influence the household. Why he apes his betters, and it isn’t the done thing, Marcus. And she says he’s still her valet? Her valet? That is utterly preposterous, unbelievable, and you, as the head of the family, surely can’t allow it to continue. I don’t want to see the Wyndham name swimming into any more disrepute than it already swims.”

  A very dark eyebrow went up a good inch. “Our name is in disrepute? Why is this? Perhaps you believe, ma’am, that I am the cause of this so-called disrepute since I am merely the son of the second son?”

  “Don’t be a nodcock, boy, it doesn’t suit you. No, certainly not. The disrepute we are currently experiencing is the Duchess’s being made legitimate. Add a man valeting a girl and the result is obvious to predict.”

  “Ah, well, Aunt,” Marcus said, “I beg you to think, rather, that my uncle and the Duchess’s father, came to see what was right and did it. As for this valeting business—”

  The Duchess interrupted him in an unruffled, utterly serene voice. “It is done, dear ma’am, and I fear there is no going back now. I trust the disrepute will die down in time. But this does disturb me. Do you honestly believe Badger’s excellent English to be pernicious?”

  “No, she doe
sn’t,” Marcus said, giving Aunt Gweneth a look that shut her mouth quickly. “Particularly when Spears rivals him in elocution and delivery.”

  “Marcus, that is all well and good, but you cannot allow him to remain here as her valet.”

  “Valet,” Antonia said, lifting her head from her current novel, a hideously ill-written story of a constantly weeping Medieval heroine and a hero who cleaved everyone he met in half with his magic sword. “He is your valet, Duchess? How very interesting. Does he arrange your hair? Does he draw your bath? Will you introduce him to me tomorrow?”

  “If you like, Antonia.”

  “Badger will remain,” Marcus said firmly. “In exactly what capacity I have yet to determine.”

  “I believe,” the Duchess said quietly, “that it will be up to me to determine Badger’s position.”

  “Hardly,” Marcus said. “You may now live here at Chase Park, but you are not the master. Directing many servants on a vast estate is quite different from directing one servant in a cottage. However, I will discuss it with you, as well as with Badger. Incidentally, Duchess, I am pleased you came to reason and are now making Chase Park your home. Do you care to tell me why you changed your mind?”

  The Duchess evidently didn’t care to tell him anything. Her expression didn’t change. Her white hands remained utterly still in her lap. Then she raised one hand to set her mulled wine on the low table beside her. She was so bloody graceful, he thought, watching her. Every movement she made was smooth and elegant. He suddenly saw her in his mind’s eye on her knees, bent over, gardening, the smudges of dirt on her face, tendrils of hair on her damp forehead. She’d still looked utterly composed and lovely. It was always the same with her. He wondered then if she felt anything deeply, if she ever shouted or cried or sulked, or if the elegant serenity, the utter calm, was all there was to her, that it was her in fact.