“Those are valid points.” His Grace patted Esther’s hand, his expression troubled. “But I rather think we must inquire now of you, daughter, regarding the dealings you’ve had with this—I blush to descend to cliché—scheming Jezebel, and your reasons for doing so.”
“You don’t have to answer us, Maggie,” Esther said, knowing full well she’d come very close to contradicting her beloved spouse before others. “Tending to Bridget’s situation is of greater import than rehashing old news.”
Maggie’s hand remained in Hazelton’s, and Esther saw the earl squeeze Maggie’s fingers, and yet the man remained silent.
“I need to explain,” Maggie said, “because Bridget’s situation is entangled with my own. Cecily has been demanding money from me since my come out, and I’ve produced it.” She named a figure that had His Grace swearing softly under his breath and Westhaven’s jaw clenching. Deene—clever lad—topped off His Grace’s drink and passed the decanter to Westhaven, while Maggie’s knuckles were white where she clasped Hazelton’s hand.
“Go on,” said Her Grace. “What was all that money in aid of?”
“It was in aid of my brothers’ education—I have twin half brothers younger than me—and Bridget’s comfort. Cecily is forever moving, I suspect to avoid her duns. Her quarters must be beautifully finished and her dresses in the latest fashion. Occasionally she would allow me to spend time with Bridget, and she let us correspond. I assumed Bridget would eventually come live with me. I just never quite figured out how I was going to bring that about.”
His Grace stared at his drink. “This is quite a coil, but Hazelton, you’re the one who convened this assemblage, I assume you have some ideas as to how to foil Cecily’s schemes? Throttling is too good for such a… creature.”
Esther hurt for him, hurt for his inability to show disappointment in his duchess, and hurt for the paternal heartache he’d just been dealt—and by the daughter about whom they tried the hardest not to worry.
“Benjamin has plans,” Maggie said, rising, “but I need some air. Your Grace, will you walk with me?”
Esther was on her feet in an instant. “Of course. Percy, my love, no shouting. A cool head is what’s called for now.”
She kissed his cheek, murmured a heartfelt apology, then left the room with all the tattered dignity of a mother expecting a royal set down from her adult daughter.
***
“How did you do it?” Maggie linked her arm through Her Grace’s as they passed along a walk lined with bright red tulips. The temptation to walk too quickly, to run forever and forever, galloped around in Maggie’s brain despite her mild tone.
“How did I pay Cecily?”
“No, how did you deceive Papa? How could you stand to do it?”
The duchess frowned. “Is this really what you brought me out here to ask, Maggie? I expect you want to ring a peal over my head, to put it politely.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
They walked along, arm in arm, a picture of serene feminine repose, but inside Maggie’s chest, her heart would not stop pounding.
“I had to find a way to protect you both,” Her Grace said. “I know you think I kept you from your mother, the woman who carried you and cared for you as an infant, but in my bones—in my heart—I knew if I let her see you, let her have you for an afternoon, then I might never see you again. Even if she didn’t keep you in the physical sense, she would… contaminate you. With self-doubt, with confusion, or something worse. I don’t expect you to agree with me, but please believe that I’m being honest.”
This woman strolling along beside Maggie looked like the Duchess of Moreland. She had the same green eyes, the same patrician beauty, the same faultless bearing, but she was more human than the duchess had ever been, and she radiated a particularly dignified and believable form of sadness.
“I don’t disagree with you,” Maggie said slowly. “Cecily has no honor.”
Her Grace passed an unreadable glance over Maggie’s features. “Your dear papa, whom I love more than life itself, would say women are exempt from the demands of honor. Between you and me, Maggie, I beg leave to disagree with him. You were right when you said I could not turn this matter over to him.”
“Did you think Cecily would entangle herself with him again?”
The question would have been unthinkable only an hour before.
“Not in the sense you mean.” Her Grace bent to sniff at a late daffodil. “But you put it accurately: Any dealings he had with her, she would have somehow perverted for her own ends. Your father is not always subtle.”
He was never subtle. “He would have dealt with her directly, you mean?”
“Very likely, and she would have arranged to be discovered in his arms or with her hands in inappropriate places on the ducal person the very same week you were making your come out.”
Maggie walked along beside the duchess, feeling as if her very world was spinning off its axis. “You were trying to protect me from her, and all along I thought I was the one protecting you and His Grace.” And still, Maggie’s heart was thudding dully in her chest, some nameless tension coiling tighter and tighter. “I don’t know what to think, but I do know Cecily cannot be allowed to send my sister, my half sister, into a life of debauchery, and yet, she cannot be given the means to further abuse this family, either.”
“Maggie.” Her Grace blinked at the lone daffodil. “Would it not be enough if Cecily were prohibited from ever again abusing you?”
“I have plenty of money,” Maggie said, something she’d never admitted to either of Their Graces. “Pots of it, in fact. Taking my money was not abusing me.”
“My dear girl.” Her Grace shifted her gaze to meet Maggie’s, and Maggie was horrified to see tears in the duchess’s eyes. “It makes sense to me now: You would not entertain any offers because Cecily’s blackmail would follow you into marriage. You do not socialize as befits your station because the threat of that woman using any associations against you haunts all you do. You even left your father’s house, the better to deal with her scheming. I see this, Maggie, and I see that you could not trust me or your father to protect you from it, and, my dear, I am so very exceedingly sorry.”
The ache in Maggie’s chest was threatening to choke her, and still Her Grace was not finished. “You must allow your earl to deal with Cecily, Maggie. He needs to, and he was right to bring this to His Grace. Men such as ours need to protect the women they love, and we need to allow them this.”
“But Cecily cannot be trusted,” Maggie said, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat. “They don’t know her as we do, and they won’t be alert to her underhanded ways.”
“Your mother has met her match in Hazelton,” Her Grace said, and she sounded very, very certain. “He will outwit her; see if he doesn’t.”
Maggie closed her eyes and barely managed a whisper. “She gave birth to me, but she is not my mother. That awful, scheming, selfish, unnatural woman is not my mother.”
Maggie stood there amid the crimson tulips, tears coursing down her face, until she felt strong, slender arms encircle her and a graceful hand stroke over her hair.
“Of course not, my dear,” the duchess said, her tone fierce and proud. “I am your mother, His Grace is your papa, and you are our daughter.”
Ten
Ben stood at the parlor window, glancing neither to the right nor to the left of him lest he see three grown men looking as worried as he felt.
Westhaven found the courage to speak first. “Either we’ve all developed a fascination with red tulips, or somebody had better go out there and fetch the ladies in. They’ve neither of them likely thought to bring a handkerchief.”
Deene screwed up his mouth. “Declarations of love—that’s what red tulips stand for.”
His Grace cracked a small smile. “You young fellows. Quaking in your boots over a few female sentimentalities. Believe I’ll go make some declarations of my own.”
He set
down his empty glass and left the room.
“Marriage,” said Westhaven, “calls for a particular variety of courage. I’m thinking His Grace’s experience in the cavalry is likely serving him well right now.”
“Come away.” Ben took each man by the arm, but neither of them moved. “Let him make his charge in private. I have some ideas for you both to consider, and if you’re with me, His Grace will fall in line that much more easily.”
Westhaven smiled, looking very like his father. “Don’t bet on it. Windhams can be contrary for the sheer hell of it.”
This was a joke or a warning. Ben wasn’t sure which. “The Portmaine family motto is ‘We thrive on impossible challenges.’”
Deene arched a blond eyebrow. “You just manufactured that for present purposes. You’re from the North, and your family motto is probably something like ‘Thank God for friendly sheep.’”
Which almost had Ben smiling, despite the impossible circumstances. “Westhaven, can you procure something more substantial than tea cakes? Maggie needs to keep up her strength; and Deene, if you want to call me out when you hear my proposition, please recall it’s the honor of a lady—or several ladies—we’re attempting to uphold.”
Deene’s lips quirked. “This grows intriguing. Shall we sit?”
Westhaven sent one more glance out the window to where His Grace was strolling amid the tulips, hand in hand with his duchess, one arm around his daughter’s shoulders. Maggie looked sweet and shy and about eleven years old.
“Come away.” Deene hooked Ben’s arm with his own. “You can ogle her to your heart’s content for your entire remaining life, but there’s the small matter of a damsel in distress to impress her with first.”
Westhaven appropriated Ben’s other arm, and they led him to the sofa, each taking a chair opposite.
“Now,” said Westhaven. “What are we dealing with?”
***
To Maggie, the day had grown luminously beautiful. The ducal gardens, scene of some of her happiest childhood memories, were an appropriate setting for the enormous relief singing through her veins.
“You were ever a curious child,” His Grace was saying. “Drove your brothers nigh to distraction with it and goaded them to excel in their studies. Your mother was the one who pointed this out to me.”
Her mother. Hand-in-hand with His Grace, the duchess was looking radiantly lovely despite having dried her tears—and Maggie’s—just moments before.
“They goaded me,” Maggie said. “I could not have a pack of boys shorter than me strutting about reciting Latin all wrong.”
“Of course not.” His Grace kissed her temple, a gesture Maggie could not recall him offering to her since she’d been a little girl. “You are a Windham. If Westhaven becomes half the duke his mama expects him to be, it will be in large part because his sisters trained him up for it.” He turned to his wife but kept his arm around Maggie. “My love, your gardens grow more beautiful each year, but do you suppose we should allow those young fellows to hatch up their plots without some supervision from their elders?”
Her Grace peeked over at Maggie. “Your father is concerned for his share of the crème cakes, never doubt it. But let’s go in. Maggie’s earl will worry if we keep her out here too long.”
Her parents brought her back to the house at a leisurely pace, while Maggie reflected that it wasn’t just relief filling her soul, making the world a lovely, safe place for the first time in ages. Relief was there, oceans of it, along with some regret, some worry for her half sister—she could know that now, know that Bridget was not a Windham—and not a little sorrow for years wasted in loneliness.
But what filled her heart, crowding in on the joy, the gratitude, and the relief, was recognition of a love from Their Graces so vast, so magnanimous, it filled up her entire being and illuminated her entire soul.
***
“Deene is ideally situated to manage this.” Ben sat back and did not glance at Maggie. She was seated beside him, her hand locked in his, and while he could feel tension in her, he could also feel her trust.
“I suppose I am.” Deene sounded aristocratically diffident, though Ben detected a gleam in the man’s blue eyes. “I have an acknowledged fondness for red-haired ladies, begging the pardon of present company for such an admission. I am unwed, newly titled, and known to be self-indulgent in certain regards.”
“In most regards,” Westhaven corrected him. “Which will serve nicely. When is this gathering to be held?”
“Tomorrow night.” Ben said. “What we don’t know is where, because Deene was not given an invitation.”
His Grace shot a glance at Her Grace. “I have an idea, not regarding the location of this disgraceful event but regarding bait that might simplify its conclusion.”
“Bait?” Ben liked the sound of that—Moreland was known for the devious turn of his mind, though in a duke this was more euphemistically described as “wiliness.”
“Percival, are you sure?” Her Grace apparently enjoyed the ability to deduce her husband’s thoughts, which spoke volumes about the wiliness of a certain duchess.
“I’m quite certain, my love. Give me a moment.” His Grace left the room, only to return a moment later sporting several elaborately carved boxes, each about a foot square and several inches high. “The Moreland jewels.” He opened the top box to reveal an emerald and gold parure—tiara, necklace, earbobs, bracelets, and rings—sparkling on a bed of dark brown velvet. “Or the appearance of the Moreland jewels.”
Maggie peered into the box. “Are they real?”
Ben eyed the gems, his respect for the duke growing as he did. “My guess is they are not. When Her Grace showed a penchant for losing jewelry, His Grace had this set very discreetly made for her to wear in public. It’s paste, the lot of it.”
Westhaven took the box from his father’s hands. “It’s a very good imitation.”
“And”—His Grace wiggled white eyebrows—“we’ve plenty of it. Enough to dazzle one greedy woman right into giving up the innocent girl she seeks to ruin.”
“I still have some questions about the document,” Deene said. “Westhaven, are you certain it will be binding?”
“Absolutely certain. A woman’s illegitimate children are entirely in her custody, and their father has no legal obligation to support them or any claim upon them. Cecily’s signature will be binding, but we’re best advised to see it properly witnessed, which means adult males, sane and sober and willing to testify that they saw her sign it of her own free will. And if I’m to have this thing ready in several copies by tomorrow evening, I’d best be on my way.”
“I’ll take my leave, as well.” Deene rose, bowing to the ladies. “I’ll spend the evening trying to determine the location of the party I’m supposed to join without benefit of an invitation, and bruiting about my salacious interest in the young lady.”
Which would be no challenge for a man of Deene’s reputation. Ben didn’t make this observation aloud, but a hint of a smile in Maggie’s eyes suggested she could deduce what he was thinking.
“Then I’ll take Lady Maggie home,” Ben said. “I’ve some inquiries of my own to make.”
When he got his fiancée settled into her coach, Ben tucked an arm around her, and she snuggled docilely against his side.
“You’re suspiciously quiet, Maggie Windham.”
She remained so until the horses had moved from the walk to the trot. “I’m trying to find the flaw in your plan.”
“I’ll tell you the flaw.” He laced their fingers, threw caution to the wind, and decided to be completely honest. “The flaw in the plan is that we’re having to rely on others to execute it. Had your mother not seen us driving in the park, I could pose as one of those randy beggars considering your half sister’s charms, but as it is, Cecily would find it too much of a coincidence—not to mention the outside of too much—for your devoted fiancé to be procuring your half sibling.”
“Yes.” Maggie kissed his che
ek, a surprisingly comforting gesture. “We are having to rely on others. This must be bothering you as much as it bothers me.”
“Maybe it’s good for us. Their Graces and Westhaven seemed to think Deene could be trusted.”
“He can. I don’t think he’s the flaw in your plan.”
He kissed her temple, which also imparted some comfort. “When you’ve concluded where I’ve gone wrong, you’ll please inform me?”
“Maybe I’m just worried.”
“Your mother is a formidable opponent. Did you know His Grace suspected the duchess was doing something sly with her everyday jewelry?”
“Supporting one of Sophie’s charities, perhaps?”
“Possibly. Cecily had tried approaching His Grace, and he’d threatened her with jail. When she slunk away, it didn’t occur to him she’d approach his womenfolk.”
Maggie sighed and cuddled closer. “Papa will torment himself over this.”
“He’s likely been tormenting himself since the day he succumbed to your mother’s charms.”
“He said not.” She sounded sleepy, which was probably to be expected, given her situation. “Papa said the blessing that resulted from his misstep was far greater than any passing burden it might have caused, and he assured me Her Grace felt the same way.”
It humbled him to be allowed this glimpse into the man and woman behind the ducal titles—the family. It made a quiet little earldom in the North seem trifling in comparison, not much of a challenge at all, provided he chose the right countess.
“Are you content, Maggie, that we’ll foil your mother’s schemes and rescue Bridget?”
She stirred a little against him, her weight and warmth feeling so exquisitely right, Ben almost signaled the driver to slow the horses.
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