The Duke's Perfect Wife

by Jennifer Ashley

  He exaggerated a flinch as the wife probed the wound at the base of his skull. “That’s th’ trouble,” he said in a careful voice. “I don’t remember.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t remember nothing?”

  Hart shrugged. “It’s a blank. Perhaps I was robbed, hit on the head, and shoved down a shaft. You said I didn’t have money with me.”

  “That be true.”

  “Then that’s likely what happened.” Hart fixed his gaze on the man, telling him without words that it would be to his benefit not to question the story.

  The man looked back at him for a long time, his hand on the hilt of his knife. Finally he nodded. “Aye,” the man said. “That’s what happened.”

  The wife stopped dabbing. “But if he don’t remember who he is, how is he going to pay us?”

  “He’ll remember, sooner or later.” The man took a pipe from his coat and shoved it into his mouth, showing missing teeth. “And the longer it takes, the more he pays.”

  “But we ain’t got room,” the wife said in worry.

  “We’ll manage.” The man took his pipe from his mouth and pointed the stem at Hart. “You stay, but you earn your keep. Don’t care if you’re a lord. Or a laird, I guess the Scottish call them.”

  “Not the same thing,” Hart said. “A lord has been given a title by a monarch. A laird is a landholder. A caretaker of his people.”

  “That so?” The man brought out a pouch of tobacco and stepped under the cabin’s eave to fill his pipe without rain dropping in it. “How do you remember that but not your name?”

  Hart shrugged again. “It came to me. Maybe my name will too.”

  The man slowly filled the pipe, then put the pipe into his mouth. He took out a box of matches, struck a match against the cabin wall, and touched the spurting flame to the bowl. He sucked and puffed, sucked and puffed until smoke rolled from the pipe, pungent against the smell of the river.

  “Got another pipe somewhere,” the man said, seeing Hart’s gaze.

  “Coffee is fine for now.” Hart took a sip of it. Very bitter, but thick enough to cut the haze in his head.

  The man pulled out a dented flask, put a drop of brandy in his cup of coffee, and added some to Hart’s. “The name’s Reeve. The lad there is Lewis.”

  Hart took another sip of coffee, fortified now with the brandy.

  “I got something he can do,” Mrs. Reeve said to Hart. She pointed at the cabin. “Two buckets of night soil need emptying.”

  Hart laid down the net. “Night soil.”

  “Aye.” Mrs. Reeve’s dark blue eyes met his, daring him. Lewis didn’t register an expression. Reeve said nothing but looked on in amusement.

  Earning his keep.

  Hart let out his breath and got to his feet. He ducked into the cabin, removed the indicated buckets from the rear, and came back out with them. While Reeve watched with obvious enjoyment, the Duke of Kilmorgan, one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the empire, trudged down the deck of the boat to empty buckets full of English shit.

  The search for Hart Mackenzie, Duke of Kilmorgan, went on for a while longer, but the police, and the journalists with them, soon concluded that he was dead. He’d been left down in the tunnels, which the rain had washed clear. Sooner or later his body would turn up floating in the Thames.

  Only Ian Mackenzie did not give up. He went out every morning at first light, often not returning until the wee hours of the morning. He’d eat in silence, with Beth watching him worriedly, sleep a few hours, and then go out again. When asked about his progress, Ian would repeat his mantra that he would find Hart, and nothing more.

  David Fleming, Hart’s second-in-command, stepped in to lead the coalition party. Election campaigns went on, and even without Hart, the coalition had strength. Mr. Fleming was certain of a majority, the newspapers said. Unfortunate that the duke would miss the victory he’d spent years preparing for, but that was the way of the world.

  The newspapers also reported that the duke’s wife staunchly refused to wear black until she had proof of her husband’s death. Brave, beautiful lady.

  Eleanor also refused to stay home and wring her hands. Each day she walked through the park in the center of Grosvenor Square, the key to its gates in her pocket. She’d make for the tree nearest the center of the park where the curving walkways came together. Her heart fell every afternoon when she found no flower waiting for her in the appointed spot.

  Her common sense told her that if Hart had been able to come to the little park and leave their signal that he was well, he’d have simply come home. But Eleanor looked, every morning. Every afternoon, she pulled on gloves and hat and rode to Hyde Park in Hart’s landau. She’d descend and stroll along the walks to the crossing paths in the middle, but again, she found nothing, no sign that Hart had been there.

  She would find nothing, she knew. Hart might have forgotten all about the silly signal, in any case.

  But she took comfort in the ritual, in the hope that the next time she walked to any of their agreed-upon places, she’d find Hart’s sign that he was all right. She clung to the hope. She needed it.

  Meanwhile, the tragic death of the duke and the grief of his family moved to the back pages of the newspaper, while dire news about General Gordon and the Sudan took the front. The journalists didn’t care about Hart, Eleanor thought in disgust. They only wanted a juicy story.

  The rest of the family decided to return to Kilmorgan, and asked that Eleanor come with them. Cameron was especially grim.

  “Dad might have to be duke now,” Daniel whispered to Eleanor as they held a family conference in Hart’s drawing room. “He doesn’t want to be.”

  “He won’t,” Eleanor said. “I’m going to have a baby.”

  The room went silent. The Mackenzies stopped jabbering among themselves and turned eyes to her—green, dark blue, and shades of gold. They were all there—Cam and Ainsley, Mac and Isabella, Daniel and Beth. Only Ian was absent, on his ever-vigilant search for Hart.

  “For God’s sake, tell me it’s a boy,” Cameron said. “Hart wouldn’t be that cruel, to disappear and not leave behind a boy.”

  “Leave her be, Cam,” Ainsley said. “How can she possibly know?”

  “I’m certain it is a boy,” Eleanor said. “I sense it. My father would say that was ridiculous, of course, but…”

  She faltered. Eleanor had kept up her resolution that Hart had survived—he was so strong, how could he not? She’d kept it even knowing she hadn’t told him about the baby. She hadn’t been certain at Kilmorgan, but every day that passed brought more certainty, as did her sicknesses in the mornings, of late. Eleanor was never sick.

  She’d been looking forward to telling him. She’d imagined Hart’s joy, his hope. He’d have Wilfred send the formal announcement to the newspapers, and Eleanor and Hart could celebrate privately…

  I will not break down. I will not give up hope. If I give up, then that means he is truly gone.

  Daniel, next to Eleanor on the sofa, heaved himself at her and enclosed her in a warm hug. “Ian will find him, and so will the tenacious Fellows. You’ll see.”

  Eleanor fought back her tears. If one tear came, then a flood would.

  Beth said, “It’s doubly important that you come with us to Scotland, El. We’ll keep Hart’s baby safe at Kilmorgan.”

  “No.” Eleanor shook her head. “If he’s found, I want to be here, to go to him right away. He’ll need me.” And if he were found near to death, she’d never forgive herself if she weren’t there to say good-bye.

  Cam and Mac watched her, they looking so like Hart and yet so different. Hart’s nephew, again similar and yet different, had left school in Edinburgh to hurry to help her. Their wives—her closest friends—knew what they’d feel were it their Mackenzie lost and gone. Eleanor’s heart swelled with the love of this family.

  On the other hand, she would not let them herd her off to Scotland and seclude her. They ought to know her b
etter than that, by now.

  At last, they stopped trying to convince her, even Beth realizing it was useless.

  Later, after the family had gone, Eleanor retreated to her bedchamber, retrieved her memory book from her drawer, and opened it to the photographs of Hart. She’d pasted the ones she’d taken at Kilmorgan onto the pages following the older ones.

  Eleanor studied them all, first those of Hart young and such a devil, his body beautiful. In the photograph of him in his kilt, Hart laughed out of the picture, his hand out to stop the photographer.

  She turned from that to the photographs she’d taken of him in his kilt at Kilmorgan. She traced the one of him holding his kilt over himself, hiding little. The next one was of him leaning, bare, against the wall, laughing.

  The flash of vision came to her of Hart over her in the dark, his body against hers, whispering, I need you, El. I need you.

  Eleanor’s resolution cracked, and she lay across the book and sobbed.

  Eleanor loved him. She’d lost Hart, and she loved him so much.

  She thought about how she’d found Hart at the tomb of his son, tracing the letters of the lad’s name. Remembered him with head bowed, his hand on the cold stone—proud, proud Hart—anguished that he hadn’t been strong enough to save little Graham.

  Eleanor put her hand to her abdomen, where life had begun to stir. Her child. Hart’s son. Tears flowed faster.

  She heard someone enter the room, but she couldn’t lift her head. Maigdlin, she thought, but the tread was wrong, as was the scent of cigars and wool.

  The chair next to her creaked and then a broad hand touched her arm. Eleanor pried open her eyes to see Ian next to her, his hand unmoving. Ian, who rarely touched anyone but Beth.

  Eleanor sat up and snatched up her handkerchief. Ian smelled of the outdoors, of coal smoke and rain. “I’m sorry, Ian. This is not me giving up hope.” She drew a long breath. “It’s me feeling sorry for myself.”

  Ian didn’t answer. He was staring at the book, still open to the page with Hart naked, his kilt on the floor.

  Face heating, Eleanor closed the book. “Those are…”

  “The photographs Mrs. Palmer took of Hart. Good. She gave them to you.”

  Eleanor sat back, her lips parting. Joanna had said that an unknown someone had sent the photographs to her with instructions to post them to Eleanor at intervals.

  Not Hart. Ian.

  “Ian Mackenzie,” she said.

  Ian met her gaze for a fleeting moment, then studied the patterns on the cover of the memory book.

  “You sent the photographs to the maid Joanna,” Eleanor said. “You did, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good heavens, Ian. Why?”

  Ian traced the gold curlicues that lapped and overlapped and twisted back along themselves across the book’s cover. He said, without glancing up, “Mrs. Palmer had others. I couldn’t find them. I was afraid they’d end up in a newspaper, so when Mrs. Palmer died, I searched the house for them. But someone had gotten there before me, and I only found the eight, stashed behind a brick in a chimney. I kept them a while, then decided to send them to Joanna.”

  “And told her to send them on to me?”

  “Yes.”

  He went back to tracing the pattern. Over and over, staring at it without blinking, his body still except for the tracing finger.

  “Why?” Eleanor asked, a little more sharply than she meant to.

  Ian shrugged. “So you’d go to Hart.”

  “I mean, why now? Why not when you first found the pictures after Mrs. Palmer died? And why use Joanna as the go-between?”

  “Joanna likes Hart. She’d want to help him.”

  He fell silent, and Eleanor regarded him impatiently. “You didn’t answer my first question.”

  Ian sometimes did that. He’d answer what he wanted to and ignore the rest. He used that method to get around his inability to lie.

  But this time, he said, “I did not send the pictures when I found them, because Hart was too busy then. He would not have paid enough attention, and he would have lost you again.”

  “Well, you cannot tell me he is less busy now. He is about to become prime minister.”

  Ian shook his head. “I waited until he finished all his plotting. Now it’s almost over. Hart won’t be prime minister long. He’ll fall.” Ian wrenched his gaze from the pattern and fixed it directly on Eleanor. “And he’ll need you.”

  Eleanor, caught by the golden depths of Ian’s eyes, could not look away. “What are you talking about? His coalition is strong, the newspapers are full of it. Even without Hart here, they’ll win the majority. His party will rule.”

  “Hart will be a bad leader. He wants everything his way, all the time. All must obey.”

  “He’s bad at compromise, you mean.” Eleanor had to agree with Ian, there. The word compromise hadn’t been invented for the likes of Hart Mackenzie.

  “I know what you mean, Ian,” she said. “Hart has large ideas and doesn’t notice the smaller problems of ordinary people. Not until it’s too late, anyway. Like he didn’t notice the Fenians until they tried to kill him. And then he had the gall to be surprised.”

  Ian continued to gaze at her, unblinking, as though mesmerized by her eyes. Eleanor waved her hand in front of his face.

  “Ian.”

  Ian jumped and looked away.

  Eleanor pushed the memory book aside. “You sound very certain that you will find Hart. Almost as though you already have found him. Do you know where he is?”

  Ian went silent again, his gaze moving past her to the window and the darkening fog beyond. He studied it for so long that Eleanor began to believe he did know and was trying to decide whether to tell her.

  Then Ian rose. “No,” he said and walked out of the room.

  Chapter 21

  The pipe-smoking Reeve rented a small boathouse near Blackfriars Bridge on the south side of the Thames, but he and his wife and son spent most of their time either on the river or on the boat wedged up onshore.

  Reeve roamed far and wide looking for treasure in the sewers, the river, the water and gas tunnels, under the bridges, and inside the railway tunnels. He claimed that anything along the buried Fleet River was his, though his rivals contested him from time to time. Hence the knife.

  Mrs. Reeve provided her family with fresh water every day from a public pump—one of the new wells that tapped fresh water far from the river. She brought enough for all of them, even enough for Hart to wash and clean his teeth. He’d never before realized the simple joy of the tooth powder he had the lad Lewis purchase for him from a chemist.

  The Reeves did not tumble to who Hart was, nor did they seem to care. Hart proved willing enough to help—he and Reeve hauled the boat in and out, Hart knew how to cast a net, and he helped Lewis go through the “catch” every night.

  The only thing Reeve refused to let Hart do was go with him into the tunnels—it took a special knack, Reeve said, and he didn’t want to be hunting for Hart in them again. Hart agreed, never wanting to see the bloody sewers again. Hart knew too that Reeve didn’t want to take the chance that Hart would disappear and not give Reeve his reward money.

  As for Hart, he was not yet ready to leave. He wanted more than anything to get back to Eleanor—he dreamed of her every night. But once he’d discovered, through the discarded newspapers Reeve brought to the boat, that Eleanor was alive and well, and so was Ian, he made himself resist the frantic urge to rush to her. Scotland Yard and others were still hunting those trying to kill Hart, and Hart could protect Eleanor and his family better by lying low. He needed to get a message to Eleanor, however, to reassure her he was all right.

  For that, he’d have to recruit help. Hart watched the Reeves, assessing them, working on winning their trust as he decided whether to trust them in return.

  Hart never tried to take command of Reeve’s boat or tell him what to do. He made requests instead, reasonable ones, offhand. For
boots that fit so he could better help carry the boat over the shingle. A fisherman’s sweater to wear over his thin shirt so he didn’t have to borrow Reeve’s extra coat. He’d had Mrs. Reeve find him some trousers before he’d been there a day, converting his plaid into a cover for his pallet. He also let his beard grow in, rough and red, prickly stubble. From a distance, and perhaps even up close too, he now looked like just another fisherman.

  Hart started suggesting where they might take the boat and cast the nets for a better haul. He began standing guard at night so the boy and Reeve could get more sleep. Gradually Reeve began asking for Hart’s opinions, and then, when Hart’s ideas found them more valuable flotsam and jetsam, Reeve started waiting to be told what to do. Hart was a natural leader, and Reeve, though not a mindless follower, began to acknowledge Hart’s casual command.