“If that poor young woman has beaten herself with a riding crop, then I am the Queen of England,” Jane scoffed.
“You certainly act as though you are,” Will murmured under his breath, resigned to her stance on the matter at hand.
“And you act as though you are a monster, William. You are hardly that.”
“It is difficult to imagine myself as anything else.”
She softened a little. “Why do you think I am trying to coax you back into the ton? I refuse to believe that anyone but you can be so harsh on yourself.”
Sitting wearily on the edge of the table, Will sighed for what seemed like the hundredth time since he’d acquired his surprise guest. It already felt like it had been a week since he found the body by the brook. “Because you choose to see the best in people. Do you not know what they’ve started to say about Malliston? I don’t believe for an instant that he killed his lady wife… nor should any other sane person. Yet, there the gossip goes.”
The newspapers ran mad with it. A society column had even printed the awful nickname—the Duke of Havoc. Unfortunately, it would most likely gain a foothold.
“I think about it from time to time. You do realize that his situation has not been helped by his complete disregard for society, don’t you?”
“We shouldn’t have to cater to the ton,” said Will dismissively. “They have no comprehension of what we have been through. I do not know Malliston personally, but I know that he suffered in a similar way to me. Wellington is supposedly very fond of him, and had him returned home not long before I was deemed fit to travel, too.” Will wondered if the Duke of Nidderdale would ever shed his disparaging society moniker. It was a shame. By reputation, he was brilliant and liked by those under his command.
“I agree,” she replied. “But sadly, the ton can dictate your quality of life whether or not you want it to. You will not always feel as you do now. It is important to remember that, one day, you will want the warmth of friends, of familiarity and structure. It is not for me to say that you should want a family.” Jane regarded him steadily. “But I do believe you will come to regret this intense isolation.”
Uncomfortable with the nerve she was striking, Will held up a hand to stop her from elaborating further. “We really must return to the more pressing matter.”
“The more recent matter,” she amended with a frown all but visible in her voice, even if her face was composed.
“I still maintain that the woman must go sooner rather than later.” In an endeavor to stem his aunt’s protests, he quickly added, “I will consider the options we may have to address her plight, and I will not make her leave an instant earlier than her health will allow.” He was still a doctor at heart, and it was repugnant to him to truly think of relocating her before she had recovered. “At this point in time, I do not know if she will take days or weeks to heal. I accept the uncertainty.” Will shrugged.
“Thank you, William. You are finally speaking with some compassion.”
With a scowl, he continued. “In the likely event that she continues to obscure her name and home from us, I think it’s probably best that she go to the Sisters of Mercy in Preston. They will take her in, and gladly. If, indeed, she has been ill-treated by a member of her family—or a husband—it could be the best and most respectable option for her.”
Several moments of silence passed while Jane was in deep reflection. “Very well. I agree with your solution, although I do not think it will come to that.” Her eyes took on a distinct, almost devilish glitter.
Ah, she is up to something. Perhaps she is going to try convincing me to retain her as a servant. “And what, pray tell, makes you think so?”
“Oh, nothing in particular,” said Jane as she rose to quit the room. “I shall see to breakfast. Do try to get some rest, William. You sound most terrible. It is a wonder the poor woman did not break her silence to protest your surly tone. If that did not drive her to action, then I don’t know what will.”
Knowing that she jested, Will only shook his head and gave her a warm smile. Jane was always forthright with him, and she was correct. He had been woefully curt. He pondered the situation he now found himself facing.
Could he have rescued a poor soul from the foul treatment of her own family?
The possibility almost curdled his blood. Although its size had dwindled substantially, his own family had been loving. Even his brothers had, in their own ways, been incredibly demonstrative. His father, unlike many fathers in the ton, was by nature a thoughtful and kind man.
And his mother had been a paragon of mothers: she was not generally prone to sentiment, but none of her boys ever doubted her love. Will considered himself to be quite lucky that neither of his parents was distant or a disciplinarian. They were certainly never cruel.
For this stranger to have suffered even theoretical abuse did tug at his heartstrings. Softened by his thoughts, Will found himself bounding down the stairs and through the hall to the first parlor. Weak morning light came through the windows, illuminating a few sleepy maids who had just started their work.
He paused at the parlor doors, raising his hand to knock. But there was no movement, no sound from within, and he nudged the doors open gently.
The nameless woman was sleeping soundly.
She was covered by a quilt he and Jane had secured from one of the cupboards in their haste to warm her. The large chaise dwarfed her form, and her dark hair spread out along her shoulders. Will could not help but appreciate the way it was offset against the brocade.
A plate of covered food lay on the sideboard, untouched. He figured that one of the maids must have brought it only a few minutes ago. He had instructed last night that she be given simple fare, because until he knew for certain what ailed her, he did not believe anything rich would be a good idea. Whatever was on the plate, it would keep until she woke.
Will studied her. Moments ago, he had been resolute in his determination to see her gone from the manor. But upon seeing her again, he was regrettably more indecisive and more protective.
You just had to follow the sound of a creature in pain, didn’t you?
“What in Heaven will I do with you?” he said to nobody in particular.
Chapter Three
The afternoon brought Will a wave of new resolve.
True, it could have been his mere two hours of sleep fooling him into a false sense of confidence. But after he’d breakfasted, convened a quick meeting with his steward, taken a short rest, then gone for a brief walk in the gardens—more to wake himself up, than anything—he believed that this matter of his new “guest” could be taken care of without any more melodrama or complications. Benedict had seemed to agree, and frowned a little when Will mentioned Jane’s adamant wish that she stay.
“Your Grace,” said Benedict, looking slightly to the side of Will as he generally did, and Will could not figure out if this was because Benedict was frightened of his face or not, “with respect, is Lady Jane the mistress of Blackbrook, or are you its master?”
“She is not, but she is my aunt,” said Will, a little taken aback. It was the first time Benedict had been so forthright with him. Did he dislike Jane’s presence? If he was a traditionalist and believed women should be subservient to their male relatives, it was possible that he disapproved of her. Then again, she was a widow with money of her own. There was nothing disrespectful about that, and Will personally did not have a problem with her temperament at all, which had been headstrong before her marriage and the death of his uncle, just as it was now. He gazed at Benedict. “Does the fact that I take her counsel bother you, Benedict? I’d no idea you were so…” Backwards, Will thought. “Traditional,” he finished. He asked because he was curious and because such behavior needed to be culled, now. Benedict could believe what he wanted privately, but it was not his place to judge Jane.
Flushing, Benedict sniffed. “No, it does not. But if you do not want this young woman within the manor, then I see no reason why
you should let Lady Jane sway you.” He shammed writing in a ledger, possibly so that he would not have to elaborate.
Still puzzled, Will wanted to understand why Benedict seemed so firm on the matter. “I do not, but she is still quite unwell. Benedict?”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“I do have your word that you won’t tell a soul about her presence here?”
“I shall be the very soul of discretion,” answered Benedict, still “writing” something. He was perched on the edge of the chair opposite Will’s desk, appearing most uncomfortable.
“And if you hear any gossip about there being a young lady here, when you are in Brookfield, I mean, could you tell me?”
I should have phrased that more as an order, thought Will. He still wore the privileges of his dukedom awkwardly, like a lad who’d outgrown his favorite coat and refused to give it up. The difference was, he hoped he’d grow into the role.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“I don’t know if he will talk, but we did have to hire a driver to take us back to Blackbrook after we found her.”
“I don’t consort with drivers,” said Benedict.
“Of course not.” Will humored him. “However, gossip travels faster than sickness, sometimes, and if this particular piece does, then I will know who started the spread.” Benedict paused, sensing that something more was in the offing. He finally met Will’s eyes. Will grinned, and it would not have been a kind expression even if his face were perfectly intact. “That driver, or you, Benedict.”
Benedict swallowed.
Slightly smug that he’d shaken the man with more than his countenance, Will continued. “Now, I don’t believe you’d speak about it. I only say so to make a point.”
“Point taken, Your Grace.”
Will still did not wish to go against his aunt and cast the woman out without her being in better health. But Benedict raised something that Will often took for granted: he was Lord Ainsworth and this was his manor. If he felt uncomfortable hosting someone, he would see to it that they were not underfoot for long. It was his right.
He decided to visit the invalid after he changed out of his riding clothes.
She seemed to be in surprisingly good spirits. She was sitting up on the chaise, curiously watching a maid who was clearing the room of the tray of food he had noticed earlier. She looks as though she has never had anyone do anything for her, noted Will with some humor. The woman wore an uncomfortable expression as she eyed the maid’s actions. He could see in the better light that her eyes were a golden brown.
She was also in fresh clothes, which Will assumed could have only come from Jane. In fact, the emerald green cap on her dark hair was one that his aunt had donned only a few days ago.
“I see that you are doing better,” Will said, as he made his way into the parlor.
The maid bobbed a curtsy and hastily left the room. Will was accustomed to such abrupt treatment from newer members of the staff, and this maid was both relatively new, having been hired on by Jane in the last month, and very young. His servants were told never to speak about the manor, or what he looked like, or of anything that might encourage idle gossip. It was possible that some did but, if so, they did it with tact and he had never found out about it. He was not a harsh taskmaster, but he had established something of a new order since his return from Salamanca. Only the servants who had verifiable household duties were allowed into the manor, and if any outsiders needed to enter to provide a service or a message, he vetted them carefully.
Everyone he employed was paid handsomely and well above the usual rates. It was an unusually circumspect arrangement, but his older staff seemed to welcome it out of loyalty to him and the family name, while the newer ones were swayed by money. It was also well-known that any whiff of nattering would translate into immediate dismissal. Consequently, there was a bit of a divide in behavior. There were the servants who would address him convivially, and these were people who had known him since childhood, like Marcus, his valet, and James, who had been a butler in Blackbrook since Samuel was small.
Then there were the newer additions to the staff that avoided his gaze and did their work competently, but were as timid as mice while they went about it.
None of this bothered Will because he was used to it. He never mistreated any of his servants, but he did not necessarily exchange words with all of them. However, his patient’s face belied a small amount of censure at his silence toward the maid, who had made a hasty retreat from the room and actually dropped an item of clothing on the rug on her way out.
Blast it all, he thought. She is actually judging me, isn’t she?
The mildly disdainful expression on her face caused him to feel a little shame and he didn’t even quite understand why. Slightly disgruntled, he proceeded to retrieve the piece of clothing off the plush rug, which gave him a little time to school his emotions.
But it only added to the strange feeling of embarrassment that was blossoming in his chest.
The maid had dropped a corset.
Don’t you dare throw it back onto the floor, Will. You’re a grown man. You’ve seen unclothed bodies, and the insides of bodies, and this is nothing more than a piece of clothing, he thought.
No one knew that he was, in fact, relatively uninitiated in the ways of the flesh and carnal matters. Unlike his brothers, he had not tumbled any of the village girls at his earliest opportunity. When he was out in society as a younger man, he likewise did not indulge in many affairs, in spite of his natural charm and elegant but easygoing manner. Then, while he’d worked in London, there had been little time for him to seek any women out at all.
You only ever kissed Diana, as well, he told himself ruefully.
He was not naive or inexperienced but, despite teasing his aunt about men who paid women to watch them do salacious things, he was still rather shy. He supposed this was the burden of having been a child who kept to himself, then a man who was generally more intrigued by books than thoughts of dens of iniquity. He’d been that way even before his disfigurement.
He held on to the corset gingerly and placed it on the chair Jane had occupied last night. He was certain his face was pink.
No sound had emerged from the figure on the chaise until then, when he thought he heard a tiny snicker of amusement. He abruptly turned his attentions back to her, trying not to glare as he did so. She tried to disguise the laughter on her lips with a cough. Her eyes closed quickly as she brought a hand to her mouth and coughed viciously, hitting her chest gently with the other hand as though to clear it.
What a minx, he thought, rather cross that she was chuckling at his expense.
Her actions were transparent and he found himself torn between anger that she was amused by his discomfort, and admiration that she was quick enough to attempt playing it off. He decided not to settle on either reaction, and not to acknowledge the incident at all.
Arranging his face in a steady, grave look, such as it was, he settled in a chair beside the chaise and resignedly waited for her measured coughing fit to pass.
When it did, there was a playfulness to the manner in which she opened one eye first, as though she were fearful of a reprimand, miming the way an impish child might gauge a parent’s reaction to a prank or jest. As she opened her other eye, she made a show of collecting herself and bowed to him, even seated as she was.
Will had to admit that it was actually refreshing. Nobody, save for Jane, felt like they could joke with him. True, he did not exactly encourage the practice.
He thought that she might, perhaps, speak after all of this.
He was wrong.
“So, we are at the same impasse. But apparently, you have developed skills that would serve you excellently if you were an actress.”
She shrugged and still did not budge on her silence. Will stroked at his lower lip. He couldn’t decide on what, exactly, to call her, seeing as he did not know if she was married, unmarried… he gave a heavy sigh that was almost a
groan.
“Miss, you put me in a delicate position with your refusal to talk. However, we must communicate our thoughts one way or another. I don’t believe you even wish to make proper introductions. But I’ll make the attempt.” He frowned. “Again. I told you who I was, but I think you were too distressed last evening to understand much. I am Lord William Ainsworth, Duke of Ravenwood. Would you do me the honor of telling me your name, now?”
No reply met his measured speech. I didn’t expect anything else, though.
He stroked at his lip even more, thinking. This situation had occurred to him; he had little evidence to believe that the woman would speak to him. Holding her gaze, he went to an old bureau in the corner of the parlor and opened it, locating a small bottle of ink, a piece of paper, and a quill. He did not know if she was literate, but he was about to find out.
“Can you write?” He raised an eyebrow.
His patient nearly scowled and seemed to think better of it. She nodded. He walked toward her as non-threateningly as he could.
But she drew away from the proffered writing materials like he held a dangerous, snarling beast or an implement of torture in his hands. He almost cursed.
He was now completely convinced that she had no desire to reveal anything about herself. Either that or she was saving face by lying about being able to write. Depending on her status, it was not out of the question that she would be unable to, but it was maddening that if she could, she was refusing to oblige him.
Unbidden, without having given the idea serious thought before that instant, he started to wonder if she was running from the law. Will studied her. She did not seem criminal. She seemed stubborn, and frightened, and hardened beyond her years, but he did not truly think she could be responsible for anything too ghastly.
You’ve been reading too many novels of late.
He set down the writing materials on a low table nearest the chaise.
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