When someone loves you

by Susan Johnson

  “I understand completely,” Mrs. Foster returned smoothly, like her daughter quick on her cues. “It seems only yesterday my girls were babes.”

  Annabelle took pleasure in the fact that her mother could mention Chloe now without distress.

  “Indeed,” the duchess agreed. “You turn around and they’re all grown up.”

  “Or marginally so, in Giles’s case,” the duke observed. Giles had just run up another large gambling debt his father had settled. “Our youngest son plays too high.”

  “Too intemperately, you mean,” Duff murmured.

  “One worries, of course, when children associate with the wrong people,” the duchess said with a smile. “But it seems it’s all in the way of growing up.”

  “I daresay,” Mrs. Foster returned politely. “Girls don’t as a rule gamble, so it wasn’t a worry for me. And both my daughters were very dutiful,” she added, smiling at Annabelle.

  Annabelle flushed under her mother’s praise, not sure her mother’s notions of dutiful coincided with hers.

  Taking note of Annabelle’s discomfort, Duff stepped in. “Would you like to go to the races some day, Mrs. Foster? Annabelle and I were planning on going to the track next week. I believe my family has some horses on the schedule.”

  Mrs. Foster beamed. “I should enjoy that immensely.”

  Julius looked at Elspeth, and she at him, their surprise apparent.

  Annabelle was equally surprised. The races were a very public venue.

  “I shall be quite recovered by then,” Duff explained casually, as though in answer to the various looks of amazement. “We can make a day of it.” He glanced at his mother and father. “Would you care to join us?”

  “Of course. We would be delighted. Wouldn’t we, Julius?”

  “Indeed.” The duke lifted his brandy glass to the room at large. “To a day at the races.”

  At which point, the discussion turned serious and all the various horses of note were analyzed as to speed, stamina, training, and which jockeys would be up. Mrs. Foster had been keeping abreast of the racing news once again, and she held her own in the conversation that turned on details only those with a particular interest in the sport would know and appreciate.

  It was an agreeable afternoon tea with agreeable conversation, and only when Cricket woke, crying for her next feeding, did Mrs. Foster depart. Molly was called up from the servants’ quarters and as she, Cricket, and Mrs. Foster took their leave, plans were confirmed for the day at the races.

  Those below stairs loved to gossip about their betters, and in this case, the fact that an actress’s mother had come to tea was startling. Not that Molly had contributed much, even with the grilling she’d encountered, but speculation went apace regardless, the buzz of tittle-tattle filling the Westerlands’ kitchen.

  How the gossip passed from the ducal household to The Morning Post was never clear. One servant talked to a friend in another aristocratic home, a tradesman happened to stop by and heard the news, even the newspapers had their paid sources. That it was impossible to keep anything secret in London was well known. And so an item appeared the following day in The Morning Post.

  Yesterday, the Duke and Duchess of Westerlands and the Marquis of Darley had, as guests for tea, the celebrated actress Miss Foster and her mother, Mrs. Foster, along with the latter’s charming infant granddaughter. The marquis and Miss Foster have recently returned to town after lengthy sojourns in the country.

  Annabelle saw the paper before her mother and burned it, knowing full well what mention of a child implied. The suggestion was unmistakable: she had been absent from London for her confinement and Darley was the father.

  The duchess read the few lines to her husband over breakfast and said with a smile, “What do you think Duff will say about this?”

  “Since he was the one who suggested that we all go to the races next week, I venture he won’t care. Obviously he’s not worrying about what people say apropos his liaison with Miss Foster. Nor am I, as you well know,” the duke added with a wink and went back to reading The Times.

  Duff found the paper on his breakfast tray, thoughtfully turned to the appropriate page by Eddie. Glancing up after perusing the small paragraph, the marquis cocked one eyebrow. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  “Thought you should know, that’s all.”

  “I doubt it’s of huge interest to the world that my family has tea with someone.”

  “Yer kiddin’, right?”

  Duff smiled. “The child is not mine. It’s not a problem for me.”

  “Would it be if’n it were yours?”

  “Have you become moral of late?” Duff drawled.

  “Miss Foster be the one what is going to have to take the stares. Have you thought o’ that?”

  “Miss Foster is extremely familiar with people staring at her. Don’t look at me like that. Since when have you concerned yourself with the welfare of the women in my life?”

  “She’s right nice—Miss Foster. An’ don’t say different when you don’t mean it.”

  “Very well. I agree. Miss Foster is very nice indeed. And I shan’t use her badly. You may count on that.”

  “Hmpf.”

  And so it was left that morning.

  The marquis took his batman’s censure with good grace and immediately forgot it.

  Several hours north of London, a day later when The Morning Post reached the small village of Egeleston, a country squire’s wife perused the gossip column and openly gasped. “Jeremiah, listen to this!” she exclaimed, shooting a wide-eyed glance toward her husband sitting by the window with his pipe and ale. “That wretched Foster woman has gotten her name in the papers and may very well draw us into her scandalous life!” The squire’s wife read the item to her husband with a black scowl on her porcine face.

  But instead of taking proper affront, Jeremiah Harrison set down his ale, blew out a puff of smoke, and smiled. “The Duke and Duchess of Westerlands and the Marquis of Darley, you say? I wonder what they might pay to have us take that brat off their hands?”

  “You would take that child of that inferior tradesman’s daughter?” his wife shrieked, her double chins wobbling in horror. “I forbid it, Jeremiah! My father would turn in his grave if you were to do such a thing!” As the daughter of a solicitor, Millicent Harrison had always considered herself of superior rank.

  “If it’s a profitable venture, Millicent, it’s worth considering. The wench is dead. The child can be farmed out to a foster home and be done with.” He smiled. “All we have to do is collect a tidy sum of money. Don’t say you wouldn’t wish for a new wardrobe or some fancy furnishings for the parlor. And I’ve had my eye on the property next door for some time now.”

  “Doing what you suggest would tar us with infamy, Jeremiah.” But Mrs. Harrison’s indignation had lessened considerably at the thought of a new wardrobe and furnishings.

  “Not when it would make us a damn sight richer, by God,” her husband declared, slapping his knee. “Have the groom fetch the carriage and send for our son. We have a bit o’ business to conduct in London.”

  Chapter 28

  At the same time, the Harrisons were contemplating what they might purchase with their newfound wealth, a poor curate and his housekeeper on the River Thames south of London were staring at a man lying in the curate’s bed. He’d been carried ashore from a coal barge several days ago, half dead, his clothes stripped of anything of value by the barge workers who had fished him out of the river.

  “I do declare, sir, he looks as though he might be comin’ awake.” The housekeeper spoke softly as she half-leaned over the recumbent form. “Them coal mongers were right about him mebbe livin’ after all.”

  The curate was one of the bargemen’s customers, getting his coal from them in exchange for fresh victuals on their passage to and from Newcastle. When the bargemen had stopped for their foodstuffs, they’d dropped the man on the curate’s lawn. “His color seems better and his breat
hing, too,” the curate agreed.

  Then both curate and housekeeper jumped back as Walingame opened his eyes and locked his black stare on them.

  The curate said afterward that he’d thought he’d seen the devil himself in those eyes. But at the time, he gathered himself together, cleared his throat, and spoke politely, for the man’s ravaged clothing had been expensive. “Good day, sir. If I may say, you seem to be much improved.”

  “Where the hell am I?” Walingame rasped, his voice so cold it sent a shudder down the poor housekeeper’s spine.

  “Just south of London,” the curate answered, debating whether he should call for help or not. The man was large and had a nasty scowl.

  “Get me a doctor,” the earl growled. “And brandy.”

  “We have neither, I’m afraid,” the curate replied, trying to keep the quaver from his voice.

  “I am the Earl of Walingame.” Each word was surly and overbearing. “Notify my household immediately of my location. Quickly, dammit!”

  The curate and housekeeper jumped back in unison, for he’d half risen on his elbows before falling back on the bed. Not only frightened, but intimidated, they stood frozen in place.

  “Go!” he roared.

  The curate and housekeeper scrambled from the room and then huddled at the base of the stairs, trying to decide what best to do. The man had been shot several times. Would they be accused of the crime?

  “One never knows,” the curate said with a worried frown. “The courts are fickle and certainly the man upstairs is not of a benevolent nature.”

  “Could we just send for his people and disappear when they arrive?”

  “Everyone knows who lives here, Mrs. Bennett. I’m afraid we must implement the earl’s orders and hope for the best.”

  “Send young Harry.” The housekeeper nodded, as though in affirmation. “The boy knows how to lie with the best of them. He won’t say any more than he must.”

  The curate offered her a perplexed look. “Send him where? We don’t know where the man lives.”

  “You could go ask him.”

  “I’d rather not,” the curate said honestly.

  “The coachman at the village inn might have heard o’ him—if he is an earl. Harry could go ask like.”

  Deciding on that course of action, Harry was sent off and quickly returned with the information they needed.

  “The coachman heard of Walingame,” Harry breathlessly reported. “The man’s the devil hisself, old John says.”

  “Indeed,” the curate murmured, his deductions confirmed. “Does John know where the earl resides?”

  “He don’t. But he says fer me to go to Mayfair and ask someone there. The gentry all live right close by each other, he says.”

  “Go,” the housekeeper ordered without asking for leave from the curate, her wish to rid herself of the frightening man upstairs overcoming decorum. “And come back with his people jes’ as fast as you may.”

  After seeing Harry off, the curate and housekeeper quietly left the house and waited for Harry’s return on a bench in the garden. Neither one wished to renew their acquaintance with their temporary boarder.

  It was fear, pure and simple.

  But then, a poor curate knew better than to incur the wrath of a man like Walingame.

  Chapter 29

  When Annabelle arrived at Westerlands House the following day, Duff was waiting for her in the entrance hall.

  “You’re late,” he said.

  “I apologize for the delay, but Molly decided this was the day the seamstress must be summoned for more baby clothes and Mama thought herself too countrified to deal with a London seamstress.” Annabelle omitted saying that she, too, preferred not having her mother spend too much time alone with the woman. Mrs. Partridge was gossipy, like so many tradesmen and women. “We have a goodly supply of infant-wear ordered now and Molly is satisfied,” she said instead.

  Duff had watched Annabelle closely as she explained her delay, and the moment she finished, as though having sufficiently conformed to the courtesies, he took her hand and nodded toward the door. “I thought we might go for a short drive.”

  “I saw the carriage out front.”

  “It’s a lovely day.”

  She smiled. “I noticed. You seem to be in a rush.”

  “I’ve been inside the house long enough. Come.” He moved toward the door, drawing her with him. “I have something to show you.”

  He wouldn’t explain, no matter how much she questioned him as they drove past Hyde Park, then Green Park and thence to St. James.

  He would only say, “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

  When the carriage came to rest before his town house, Annabelle turned to him with a smile. “Are you sure you’re up to this, Duff?”

  “I bought something you might like to see.”

  He hadn’t answered her. Perhaps she was mistaken in her conjecture. Or perhaps not. But he was already opening the door before the groom could put down the step, and after exiting the carriage, he turned to offer her his hand.

  “We needn’t stay longer than it takes for you to look at it.”

  “I’m not worried.” She placed her hand in his. “I can very well walk home from here.”

  “As you wish, of course.”

  But his drawl had a familiar assurance, she thought, and she wondered if he’d ever been turned down by a woman.

  Having instructed his driver to wait, the marquis ushered Annabelle up a short bank of steps. A door was immediately thrown open by a young footman, and Duff was greeted by his majordomo with great warmth. “We hadn’t heard you were well enough to travel yet, my lord. What a pleasant surprise to see you in such good health.”

  “Thank you. I trust all is well here?”

  “Indeed, sir. We only wait for your return.”

  “We won’t be staying long today, Byrne. But I expect to be back soon. Has the item I ordered arrived?”

  “It’s in your study, sir. Put up as you instructed.”

  “Send in a bottle of champagne.” Duff glanced at Annabelle. “Would you like cakes?”

  She should have refused, and had she not been rushed through her breakfast by the commotion over the seamstress, it would have been easier to do so. “Cakes would please me vastly.”

  He gave her a quick, searching glance. “Perhaps a small, cold collation as well?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Set out the champagne and food in the dining room then, Byrne. I find myself hungry, too.”

  “Yes, sir—right away, sir.” The tall butler bestowed a sunny smile on his employer. “May I say—and I know I speak for the entire household—it’s a pleasure to have you with us again, sir.”

  “Thank you. It’s good to be home.”

  As his majordomo took himself off with alacrity to see to Duff’s orders, the marquis turned to Annabelle with a grin. “Allow me to spring my little surprise on you now.”

  “I confess, my curiosity is aroused.”

  “You thought you knew, didn’t you?” he said with a wink.

  She smiled. “I was rather expecting something predictable, my lord. However, you are not the predictable sort, are you?”

  He laughed. “In some ways, perhaps I am. But come, my dear, and see what I’ve had the good fortune to purchase.”

  They walked down a short hallway to his study. Opening the door, he ushered her in and gestured to his right. “Look over the mantel.”

  As he shut the door behind them, she turned and beheld a small portrait of her painted by Raeburn. The work was a portrait study of her head in a three-quarters pose. She’d worn a riding habit for the portrait, although only the epaulettes on her shoulders and the high military collar were visible. But a little black shako with a green feather was tipped over one brow and her cheeks were flushed and her curls in disarray as though she’d just come in from riding.

  “How did you procure it?” She knew who had it, and the Prince Regent wo
uld not relinquish it willingly.

  Duff’s brows lifted. “The usual way. With a generous offer.”

  That the Prince Regent was constantly in debt the entire nation knew. On the other hand, she’d heard what the prince had paid Raeburn, and if Duff’s offer was more generous than that, she expected he was looking for a quid pro quo. Perhaps her first estimate of the reason for this stop in St. James had been correct. “I don’t know what to say. I do like the portrait, however,” she declared neutrally, although her emotions were in flux. She wanted Duff, of course. What woman wouldn’t? But she disliked the overly familiar circumstances—a pettish cavil, perhaps, but real nonetheless. “Raeburn has a way of making one look natural,” she added in a conversational tone, her years on the stage coming to the fore.

  “That’s why I liked this particular portrait.”

  “You have good taste. It’s one of my favorite ones.” She’d posed for several. She met his gaze squarely and asked in an equally direct tone, “Do you have further expectations?”

  “No… honestly—very well, perhaps—but not for anything to do with the painting.” He blew out a small breath. “I find myself like your former employer—the one when you were a governess.”

  “You’re not like him at all.” Had he been her first employer, she may have fallen in love on the spot and then what might have happened?

  “In some ways, I am.” He inhaled deeply, turned, walked to the window that overlooked the square, gazed out for a flashing moment before swiveling around. “There’s no subtle way to approach this. God knows, I wish there were.”

  She took pity on him, or perhaps allowed her feelings to rule—too often the case with Duff. “You needn’t be subtle.”

  “Good,” he said with naked relief. “The truth is—I’ve been thinking about this since you left Shoreham”—he pursed his lips—”whatever number of days ago that was… I’ve lost count. And I am, at the moment,” he muttered, holding out his hand for her, “nearly mad for wanting you.”