“Have you seen one?”
“I’m trying not to look.”
Was that a chuckle? Annoying man.
“I thought you were made of sterner stuff, Miss Harrismith,” he commented as he continued down.
“Everything except spiders, Your Grace.” Which wasn’t the exact truth. Spiders and dukes.
“Keep up.”
She swallowed an impudent reply and closed the gap between them as he negotiated the narrow slippery steps with ease.
Finally they reached the bottom, and stopped before a solid wood and iron door with a big rusty ring latch, the heavy bolt at the top drawn back. Boards which had been nailed across to block access were cast aside on the stone floor.
“What in the world…!” The duke’s bantering tone was gone. He crouched down and examined the boards, then rose to drag the door open. Stepping outside, he turned to hold the door open for her to pass through it. Jenny was only too pleased to leave the oppressive place, made worse by their discovery. The possibility that a dangerous person had orchestrated the attack on William came closer to reality. She could sense the duke’s distress as she stood on the grass and gratefully dragged in deep breaths of fresh air.
“I’ll have it repaired immediately, Miss Harrismith,” he said not looking at her. “And I’ll find out who is behind it.”
Jenny had no answer. Her heartbeat was still uncomfortably fast. She looked around to get her bearings.
“Where are we, Your Grace?”
“This is the western side of Castlebridge, the moat would have been beneath our feet,” he said.
They were quite alone and not overlooked by any windows unless someone peered down at them from the tower. From this angle, the door looked insignificant, its entrance shielded by a lilac tree and a high privet hedge. The stables were visible beyond the grove of limes which bordered the carriageway.
She attempted to order her hair, stabbing pins into her scalp. Had someone used those stairs with the intention to harm William? And opened the nursery door while they slept? A shudder raced through her.
“If someone came up that way they must be familiar with this house,” she said trying to banish the apprehension from her voice. “And they would know about the kitten.”
She hadn’t fooled him. He turned to look at her. “I’ve frightened you,” he said after a moment. “You must leave this to me, Miss Harrismith. Rest assured, you and the children will not be exposed to any more danger. I’ll send a carpenter to board up the door. And this time he’ll make a thorough job of it.”
“Are there any other passages, Your Grace?”
“There are. But none on that floor. You should return to the schoolroom. It might be prudent for you to pick some flowers before you go back inside. Your absence could be noticed.” He paused, and his angry blue eyes met hers. “White lilies seem to be a favorite of yours.”
“Not especially, Your Grace,” she said suffering a need to defend herself. “The one I picked was half broken off. Actually, it was the only lily left in the bed. The rest were just bare stalks.”
His eyes turned to slate, and a muscle flickered in his rigid jaw. “No need to explain. I am not about to refuse you a few flowers. Bring the children to the salon at three o’clock. It’s close to luncheon. You missed breakfast and must be hungry.”
And with that, carrying the lantern, he strode away.
Jenny watched him pause to stare up at the tower high above them. He squared his shoulders and walked on as if whatever decisions he needed to make had been decided on. She was confident the duke would deal with this. That he would find this person. She had never known anyone like him. Perhaps only dukes had that degree of self-confidence. It made her feel a good deal better to place her trust in him and get on with her duties. She was sure the villain, for surely there was one, would be caught. His Grace was not a man to be trifled with.
*
Andrew sought the head gardener before returning to the house. He found him digging in the kitchen garden, stirring up earthy smells blended with sage and rosemary.
“Your Grace?” Startled, he whipped off his hat and dug his spade into the earth before bowing.
“Good day, Wilkins. Looks like rain doesn’t it?”
“Might be just a shower, Your Grace. But I hope to get these beds finished before the weather turns.”
“The white lilies in the garden near the library. Why were they cut?”
“Ah.” Wilkins scratched his head. “Those were for the housekeeper. Mrs. Pollitt wanted to add ’em to an arrangement for the reception rooms, Your Grace. We are saving the hothouse flowers for the weekend party.”
“Good.” Andrew nodded, aware the man was nonplussed to find him wandering among the vegetables holding a lantern and asking inane questions. If things weren’t so grave, he might laugh at it. Perhaps Miss Harrismith would find it amusing too. “I won’t keep you, the wind is picking up.”
He sent the lantern back to the nursery and gave instructions for the carpenter to block up the door. Then he requested the housekeeper come to the library.
“When I visited the schoolroom, I took note of the governess’ breakfast,” he said when she stood before him. “Are you aware that Miss Harrismith’s meal was not delivered at the proper time?”
Mrs. Pollitt flinched, and her gaze slid away. “It was regrettable, Your Grace. The kitchens were kept busy with the guests.”
It was enough to tell him that she was quite aware of it. It had been a deliberate act designed to teach the governess some kind of lesson. Why? To keep her in her place? Because she had sought him out on several occasions? Anger shook him, and he glanced down at the papers on his desk to gain control, aware that any action on his part could make matters worse. “We have three guests, Mrs. Pollitt, I find myself in fear of what might occur when we have fifty,” he said mildly. “I’m relying on you to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
She firmed her lips. “It won’t, Your Grace.”
“I am glad to hear it. You may go.”
She curtsied and hurried from the room.
Andrew rose. Luncheon was about to be served in the dining room. He had yet to see Greta today. She was unhappy with him, and somewhat to his surprise he suffered no urgent need to smooth things over. She’d displayed a regrettable lack of sympathy when he’d expressed concern for his son’s safety, and her insinuation that he might consider bedding the governess left him wondering if he really knew her. She obviously didn’t know him. Why had she drawn such a long bow? Had his behavior concerning Miss Harrismith stirred Greta’s feminine instincts? He could explain that he’d come to rely on the governess, but that would only make matters worse.
And then there was Greta’s brother. Had he returned from Oxford? It would be good to know what he’d been up to there, but it was pointless to ask him. Ivo would tell him what he chose to, shifty individual that he was. Could he have returned late last night and used the stairway? Or was his concern for his children making him chase after shadows?
Worry was causing him to behave unlike himself. To invite Miss Harrismith to join him in that stairway was not only rash, the impulse bordered on the irrational, and decidedly reckless if anyone should get wind of it.
Even worse than that, when he questioned his actions, his thoughts skidded away. Foolish to feel somehow lighter in her calm presence. She handled everything dealt her with surprising composure for someone so young. Except when confronted with spiders.
He smiled in spite of himself. Ridiculous to think of the young governess as his comrade-in-arms, and yet he did, because there was no one else he could turn to. It hurt to admit Raymond must be considered a suspect, but he had been behaving differently since he came. Might he wish to step into Andrew’s shoes and win Greta? Saddened by his suspicion of his cousin of whom he was fond, he shook his head. Irrational, no doubt about it.
A footman was sent to York to deliver a message to John Haldane, Marquess of Strathairn, at his estate, where he would be in
residence now that parliament was in recess. He knew that Strathairn spent all his spare time there tending to his horses. Andrew hoped for a swift reply, with either an offer of assistance or some expert advice. Until then, he would personally keep an eye on his children.
The most important thing was to have Bishop write to the guests and advice the shoot had been postponed.
Chapter Thirteen
Jenny returned to the house cradling a large bunch of yellow irises the gardener had kindly cut for her. She greeted Jeremy at the schoolroom door and entered to find the children sitting at the table with Mary. William his head lowered over his book, was busy drawing, while Barbara and the cat played with a ball of wool Nanny had left behind.
As Jenny put the flowers in water, their luncheon arrived. A lamb pie, vegetables in season, bread and jam, and tea for her, a treacle pudding, and milk for the children. She ate the tasty food with good appetite, while Barbara told them one of her rambling stories about a barn owl they’d seen on their walk the previous week who had lost his hat. William laughed and asked what kind of hat it was and where did he lose it. This led to a lengthy discussion peppered with his sister’s giggles.
Despite the distressing incidents of the last couple of days, William appeared in good spirits, having convinced himself that Carrot escaped by accident and there was nothing in the corridor except shadows on the wall.
After luncheon, a footman took Barbara for her dance class while William had violin instruction in the music room. It left Jenny free to plan further lessons. A book open before her and her pen poised over her notes, she stared out the window at the gray-blue expanse of sky dotted with small dark clouds like smoke from a giant’s pipe. It had been an extraordinary few days. Especially this morning.
She rubbed her arms recalling the horrid cobwebbed staircase, the sour air, and His Grace, agile for a big man, his long legs carrying him speedily down, as if to tackle the culprit at the bottom. The lantern light gleamed on his thick dark hair. Then the discovery of the barricade ripped from the door and cast aside. His blue eyes filled with rage.
The children were to have a guard accompanying them everywhere they went. Although relieved, she couldn’t help sighing. Would the peaceful existence they’d once enjoyed ever return? She shivered at the thought that he might easily have carried out his wicked plan in the nursery while they slept.
Jenny considered each incident in turn: first the gunshot, then the fire, and Carrot’s miraculous escape through the closed nursery door. Each of them could have been intended to appear like an accident. Who would benefit by William’s death? She started. Mary had told her that the duke’s cousin, Mr. Forsythe, was next in line to inherit the dukedom after William. Would the duke suspect his own flesh and blood? She rubbed her arms, suddenly chilled. It would be wise to keep the children from being alone with him.
At three o’clock, she took the children to the salon where they were to take tea with their father. Baroness Elsenberg and Herr Von Bremen were seated with the duke when she ushered the children inside.
“Thank you, Miss Harrismith,” His Grace said, as she settled the children on the pale gold damask sofa. “They’ll be returned to the schoolroom at half past four.”
The baroness gave Jenny another of her hard stares, and Von Bremen offered his brazen smile. Jenny curtsied and left the room.
With the need for fresh air and exercise, the notion of a bird’s eye view of the duke’s estate appealed to her. Jenny set out along the path toward the distant hill the German had claimed to have climbed. She had conquered her irrational fears about being alone in the woods, aided by the knowledge that she’d left the unsettling Von Bremen in the salon.
It took her close to half an hour before she left the dense woodland and emerged into the fragile autumn sun. She kept the hill in view as she walked along a fence and crossed a style onto a wide pasture where a cluster of black-faced sheep cropped the grass. A small hut was nestled beside a chestnut tree. She gazed through a window, finding it empty. Most likely used for feed, and shelter in bad weather.
Jenny continued at a brisk pace until she came to the foot of the hill which towered above her. A rocky ridge half way up seemed the farthest one could climb, the rock face above it so steep even an experienced climber would find it difficult to scale without the proper equipment. She recalled the composed, elegantly dressed man who met her on the woodland path. Von Bremen hardly looked like he’d just indulged in a dangerous climb up a rocky escarpment. When they almost bumped into each other, and he sought to steady her, he carried no rope or pick with him. Might there be an easier way to climb the hill from the far side? It looked to be a long way around, and difficult to get to, with no obvious path through the brambles.
She consulted her watch. She would run out of time if she didn’t start back, and would be late for the children.
*
Andrew had forced himself to face his own shortcomings by the time he entered the salon. He smiled and came to take Greta’s hand. Whatever doubts he now had about her as a possible wife, he admitted he’d been neglectful of her, and hardly the swain she’d come to expect, which prompted her outburst. He still held out a hope that on further acquaintance she might grow more comfortable with his children on further acquaintance. He’d thought at first they made her nervous, but now the suspicion arose that she was not particularly interested in them. But perhaps in time she would come to know and love them, especially if she had a babe of her own.
In their short time together, he and Catherine had produced two wonderful children. Catherine’s constitution remained delicate after a childhood rheumatic illness, and the doctors warned her against childbirth, but she had been adamant. To Catherine, life without children wasn’t worth living. After a long, troubled labor she gave birth to William, and they were so thrilled to have a healthy boy that when she’d begged for another, Andrew finally agreed. And then he had lost her.
After the children had joined them for tea, the atmosphere in the salon became less strained, mainly because, surprisingly, Ivo got on well with them. His artful mocking pose dropped away, and he conversed on their level, laughing at some silly nonsense with Barbara, and engaging with William in quite a knowledgeable discussion concerning Archduke Karl von Hapsburg who had established a stud farm for breeding his own Spanish horses near Lipizza in Italy. He promised to tell William more.
Andrew watched his son’s animated face as he listened intently, interrupting occasionally to ask Ivo questions. It hadn’t occurred to him until recently that he would want more children. Now faced with the possibility, he discovered he’d like at least two or three more. He broached the delicate subject with Greta in an undertone while the children were in conversation with Ivo.
“I have no desire to become a milch cow, Your Grace,” she murmured, looking horrified.
Ivo turned from where he talked to William and coughed.
Greta glared at her brother. “A baby would be most pleasant,” she said smiling at Andrew. “A good nursery staff allows one to continue life as before. But I have no intention of becoming one of those women who give birth to a dozen. What would that do to my figure? Husbands are often unreasonable. They wish for babies to fill their nursery, but do not want their wives to get fat. Or else they seek a woman’s attention elsewhere. Fortunately, the baron had grown-up children and did not wish for more.” Aware perhaps that her comments had fallen flat, she shrugged. “And giving birth can be dangerous.”
Andrew smiled and nodded while he tried to deal with what he considered to be the final blow to their relationship. “It is a sad fact and happens far too often, Greta.” He rose. “You will wish to change for dinner.”
He held out his hand. “Come children.”
“Your Grace!” Greta hurried after him to the door. “Might we have a quiet word?” She glanced back at Ivo who was scowling at her. “Alone?” Her blue eyes implored him. “We have hardly had a moment since I came here.”
Before h
e could agree, a knock came at the door.
“There is someone to see you, Your Grace,” Forrester said at his austere best. “I’ve put the, ah, gentleman in the anteroom.”
“His name?”
“Irvine. Says the Marquess of Strathairn sent him.”
“Good. Send him to the library, Forrester.”
Andrew turned to Greta. “I’m sorry, I must see this fellow. Lord Strathairn has a racehorse of mine at his stud. He has sent his man to advise me on my stable.”
She gave a huff of annoyance and turned away.
“Have either George or Jeremy return the children to the governess, Forrester.”
“Very well, Your Grace.”
Andrew strode away without a backward glance. He needed time to order his feelings before he spoke to Greta again. He feared they would not make a good fit.
In the library, a short, powerful looking man turned to greet him, hat in hand.
“Take a seat, Mr. Irvine.”
Once they were seated, Andrew got right to the point. “I should like you to be my children’s guardian until such time as I can be sure they are safe from a possible threat.”
“If it pleases Your Grace.” Irvine removed a bulky letter from his pocket and handed it to Andrew before seating himself.
Andrew sat and unfolded the pages.
Harrow, my dear friend, Strathairn wrote. It troubled me greatly to hear of your concerns. I can’t imagine anything more frightening than to have your child in danger. I shall be there for the shoot, but until then, I have sent Miles Irvine. He fought under Wellington and then worked for the Crown. He was by my side when we sought a very dangerous French foe intent on wreaking havoc on England. You would remember the attempted attack on King George–Prinny as he was then, at St. Paul’s cathedral. I would happily place my life in his hands. Irvine was badly wounded during that mission and decided to give the game away and become an apothecary, but he likes to keep his hand in. He has agreed to do a short term of duty, at least until I arrive, and we can work together to see what’s afoot. Please God, the matter will be dealt with quickly! I’m sure you’ll find him satisfactory.
Regency Scandals and Scoundrels: A Regency Historical Romance Collection Page 57
