"Indeed?" Nia was touched that the villagers should be so protective.
"Certainly. Only yesterday a man took some rooms at the inn, and the only thing that saved him from being plagued to death was that old Travlock, the innkeeper's father, recognized him as having once been employed by the late duchess as her secretary. I gather he is thinking of retiring here."
"I hope the poor man wasn't hurt," Nia murmured, envisioning an elderly gentleman being hounded by a suspicious mob.
"Oh, nothing like that," Miss Haverall hastened to reassure her. "People just stared and whispered behind their hands. You know how it is in these villages. Any stranger is considered fair fodder for the gossips to dine upon. And according to Janet, our kitchen maid, the man in question seemed to be above it all. Rather high in the instep for one who was nothing more than a mere secretary, or so rumor would have it."
Nia was amused that the man's former station was still a well-known fact after so long. She wondered if years in the future when she returned to Chipping Campden she'd still be known as Lady Amanda's governess. The thought brought an unexpected pang, and she banished it from her mind. She bid Miss Haverall a hasty good-bye and scurried back to the Pampered Dove, the stone-faced footman trailing at her heels.
It was late afternoon when they returned to Perryvale. The butler met them at the door with the information that they had visitors, and the identity of their guests brought a grim look to Wyatt's face. He turned to Nia, who was standing at his side, her expression mirroring his.
"I must go and see what is wrong," he said, drawing her away from Amanda. "It must be important or Ambrose and Mr. Hemsley wouldn't have left London."
"I understand," she said, her eyes meeting his as she fought the urge to touch him, to reassure him that whatever was wrong, he wasn't alone. "Will . . . will they be staying the night?"
"I don't know," Wyatt admitted, revelling in the concern he saw in her eyes. "It will probably depend on whatever news they have brought. In the meanwhile, I don't want you to let Amanda out of your sight for a moment."
"Of course." Her chin firmed in that way he was coming to recognize. "You may rely on me, Your Grace."
He smiled, and then, unable to resist the temptation, he reached out and straightened her glasses, which were sitting askew on her nose. "I do rely on you, Nia," he said huskily, his breath feathering over her lips. "More than you may realize. More than I have any right to."
Nia's heart slammed into her chest, and she could feel her pulse racing as his fingers trailed over her cheek. Everything faded away, and there was only the two of them standing in a golden pool of light. The illusion was shattered by the sound of the butler discreetly clearing his throat.
"I have ordered tea served to Mr. Royston and the other gentleman," he told Wyatt, his wooden manner betraying nothing of his thoughts. "Will Your Grace be requiring anything else?"
Wyatt's hand dropped to his side as he stepped back from Nia. "No, that will be all, Chapman, thank you," he said, drawing a steadying breath. He could feel the excitement rising in him, and it amazed him that just touching Nia's cheek could have brought him such pleasure. If merely touching her conjured up such emotions, what would kissing her be like? He found the notion so sweetly tempting that he hurried off to his study before he could give in to it.
Twenty minutes later, all thoughts of kissing were the last thing on Wyatt's mind as he sat glaring at the two men facing him across his desk. He held a silver letter opener in his hand, his thumb idly tracing the intricate design carved into its handle as he listened to Hemsley conclude his report.
"So what you're saying, in essence, is that you have nothing new to tell me," he said when the other man finished speaking. "You're sure Elliott is behind the assault on Amanda, but you don't know how or why."
"We're working on it, Your Grace," Mr. Hemsley replied, taking Wyatt's cold fury in stride. "In the meanwhile we thought you should know that the bleater's disappeared. He managed to give our man the slip two days ago, and it's as if he's sunk into the earth. Don't worry, though. We'll find him soon enough."
"You shouldn't have lost him in the first place," Wyatt muttered, nailing the other man with a dangerous scowl. "Well, since you haven't any more information as to why he might be behind any of this, perhaps it isn't Elliott after all. It could be Amberstroke."
"It's not." Ambrose spoke for the first time. "I'm certain of that, if nothing else. His lordship seems content with the status quo, and almost swooned when I questioned him on the matter. He denies any ill feelings toward either you or Amanda, and I'm damned if I don't believe him."
Wyatt's eyes widened at this bit of intelligence. "You questioned Amberstroke?" he asked incredulously.
Ambrose's lips curved in a mocking smile. "I told you we dandies have our uses," he drawled. "Now, returning to the matter of your esteemed solicitor, there is one thing I have found most remarkable, even if Mr. Hemsley does not share my curiosity."
"And what is that?"
"We can establish his movements since he came to London some twenty or so years ago, but before that, were you aware that he was employed by your family?"
"What?"
"Nothing in that, Your Grace." Hemsley shrugged his beefy shoulders. "It was more'n thirty years ago. Elliott couldn't have been much out of the schoolroom—twenty-one, twenty-two, if he was a day."
"There is something to it since the man never mentioned the matter to me himself," Wyatt snapped, wondering if his faith in Hemsley had been misplaced. "Also, I'd be curious as to how you learned of this." He directed the remark to Ambrose.
"Your housekeeper, Mrs. Mayton, told me," he replied, meeting Wyatt's gaze with equanimity. "She remembered him from the early days, as she called them, and she added that she'd never cared for him above half. Something about his eyes, if I understood her correctly."
"Good God, why didn't she say anything?" Wyatt leapt to his feet and began pacing. "The man was my solicitor for over seven years! One would think she might have mentioned it to me, if only in passing!"
"You have no idea of the awe in which your servants hold you, old boy," Ambrose said with a laugh. "Mrs. Mayton would no more gossip with you than she would the prince! Fortunately for us she still regards me as an overgrown schoolboy in need of a bit of mothering, and thought nothing of spilling the family secrets in my ear."
Wyatt stiffened in alarm. "What family secrets?"
"Nothing scandalous, I assure you." Ambrose grew serious at the expression on Wyatt's face. "Just various gossip about old servants, and so on. I happened to mention Elliott's name, and you could have tipped me over with a feather when she told me he'd once worked for your mother. I—"
Wyatt's head snapped up at that. "Did she say what his position was?"
"He was her secretary," Ambrose said, his brow furrowing at Wyatt's rather abrupt response. "Mrs. Mayton said he was employed for only one summer, and that he was dismissed rather abruptly before your father returned from one of his diplomatic missions."
"I see," Wyatt said, his eyes closing as the pain in his chest grew deeper. He remembered Elliott claiming that his information had come from an "impeccable source," and he wondered if his harlot of a mother had confided her infidelities to her secretary. God knew she'd bragged of them to everyone else, he thought, bitterly recalling that long ago afternoon when he'd listened to his parents quarreling over her latest lover.
"Wyatt?" Ambrose was regarding him with concern. "Is everything all right? You'll forgive me for saying so, but you look like bloody hell."
Wyatt opened his eyes, his mouth curving in a humorless smile at Ambrose's blunt observation. He could see no reason why he shouldn't be equally blunt. The sordid tale was bound to come out once Elliott was apprehended, and he tried telling himself it was for the best. His whole life was founded on a lie, and the time for the truth was long since past. He blew out a pent-up breath and met his friend's worried gaze.
"No," he said with a heavy sigh, "ev
erything is not all right. There is something I have to tell you, both of you, and I want your word that you won't repeat it to another soul."
"My word, Your Grace." Hemsley inclined his head.
"Of course you may rely on me!" Ambrose retorted, obviously stung that Wyatt should doubt him. "What is it?"
"I am not a Perryvale."
"What?"
Wyatt told them of his confrontation with Elliott, admitting everything, even his solicitor's accusation that he was not his father's true son. By the time he finished, Ambrose and Mr. Hemsley were staring at him in disbelief.
"My God! It can't be true!" Ambrose said, clearly shaken.
"Can it not?" Wyatt's laugh was bleak. "Look at me, Ambrose. Look at them." He indicated the many portraits adorning the walls. "Do I resemble any damned Perryvale you've ever seen?"
Ambrose reluctantly did as he was commanded. "I'll admit you looks don't run to theirs," he confessed at last, "but dash it, Wyatt, there's more to family resemblance than hair and eyes! Look at me, the sole blond in a family of red-headed giants. Yet you don't see anyone casting doubts on my parentage!"
"Perhaps, but then your sainted mother never enjoyed the rather unenviable reputation mine gloried in," Wyatt said, the truth bitter on his lips. " 'The Perryvale whore.' I've heard tales of her liaisons since I was in leading strings, so please don't tell me it's not possible. It is possible, damn it, and I've always known it. Always," he added, his eyes flashing with the pain he'd suffered for so long.
"And you say Elliott was triumphant when he told you of this?" Mr. Hemsley spoke for the first time, his expression thoughtful.
"He all but threw it in my face," Wyatt answered, his hands doubling into fists as he recalled the exultant gleam in Elliott's eyes as he'd confirmed his worst suspicions.
"Mmm." Hemsley stroked his chin. "Rather an odd reaction, that. Almost personal, one might think. But why should it be personal to the gent, eh? Unless . . ." His voice trailed off as he stared off into space.
"What did you know of your mother's other lovers?" he asked unexpectedly. "Did she keep to her own class, or was she more . . . democratic, shall we say?"
Wyatt took his meaning at once. "Are you hinting he was my mother's lover?" he demanded, outraged.
"Was he?"
"How the devil am I to know?" Wyatt retorted. "I wasn't there! And I fail to see why you should be so concerned about it now. A few minutes ago you said there was nothing in the fact that Elliott once worked for my mother. It's rather late to start speculating on it now, isn't it?"
"Never too late to give things a good think through, Your Grace. And if I'd known you was keeping something like this beneath your hat, I might have taken a bit more interest in the solicitor's past. But no harm done," he added before Wyatt could speak. "Now that I know what's what, I'll soon have it set to rights."
"How?" Wyatt demanded with a dark scowl.
Mr. Hemsley took a pipe from his pocket and lit it with almost exquisite care. "If I was to know the answer to that, I'd know the answer to it all," he said calmly, meeting Wyatt's eyes through the fragrant blue smoke. "But it'll come to me, sir, never fear that. It'll come to me."
Nia half-expected that she and Amanda would dine in their rooms that night, and was surprised when Annie came up to help her dress for dinner.
"Are you sure His Grace is expecting us?" she asked as Annie arranged her hair in an elegant style. "I thought he would wish to dine privately with his guests."
"Oh no, miss," Annie said, frowning in concentration as she coaxed a curl to lie flat on Nia's neck. "I heard him telling Cook to be sure and prepare that lemon tart you and her ladyship favor. He'd not have done that if he'd planned to eat without you, now would he?"
Nia had to concede that was so, and silently submitted to Annie's ministrations. The young maid was growing increasingly proficient in her skills, and by the time she was finished Nia scarcely recognized herself. Dressed in a stylish gown of midnight-blue silk, the bodice and tiny puff sleeves decorated with faux pearls, she looked nothing like her former self. A set of pearl teardrops that had once belonged to her grandmother hung from her ears, and a pearl necklace was draped about her throat. She touched the necklace wistfully, and wondered if she would ever be content to don her drab governess togs again.
"A pity we don't have one of them feather things for your hair," Annie said, stepping back to examine her creation with a critical eye. "You'd be as pretty as could be, then."
"An aigrette, I think you mean," Nia replied, turning away from her reflection with a sigh. "And my feathers are fine enough for a mere governess." She shook off her troubling thoughts and managed a bright smile. "Thank you, Annie. Once again you have wrought a miracle."
Annie folded her hands in front of her and beamed with pride. "You're welcome, miss," she said, bobbing a respectful curtsey. "And now you'd best be hurrying. His lordship and Mr. Royston will be expecting you to join them in the parlor for sherry."
Nia hid her surprise at this bit of intelligence, for she knew enough of society to realize governesses seldom took sherry with a duke. Of course, she mused as she drifted down the wide, curving staircase, she and Wyatt hardly shared the common master and servant connection. They were . . . what? she wondered, her heart racing with emotions. Friends? He'd once said he considered her a friend, and it was obvious he respected her. She knew that should content her; indeed, it was far more than a woman in her station could hope for. But it wasn't enough, she admitted unhappily. It wasn't nearly enough. The thought weighed heavily on her mind as she entered the parlor.
Except for Amanda's bright chatter and Mr. Royston's boyish flirting, dinner was a rather subdued affair. Wyatt was withdrawn and aloof, and even Amanda had to work to win a smile from him. Nia worried that perhaps he didn't really want them there, but when he and Royston opted to join her and Amanda in the drawing room rather than linger over their brandy, she quickly discarded that notion. Still, it was obvious something was troubling him, and while Amanda was busy trying to teach Mr. Royston the intricacies of Puss in the Garden, she screwed up the courage to ask him what was wrong.
"Does this concern Amanda?" she asked, laying a gentle hand on his arm. "She's not in any danger, is she?"
Wyatt saw the fear in her hazel eyes and laid his hand over hers. "Not directly," he said, wishing he could tell her more, tell her everything. "The man the runners were watching has managed to slip the net, but it's doubtful he'll come here. More than likely he's left the country, but to be safe we'll post guards, and of course, there won't be any more trips into the village for awhile. I hope you don't mind?"
"Not at all," she assured him, sensing there was more to his silence than that. She toyed with the idea of telling him how the villagers were also keeping watch, hoping it would cheer him. In the end she rejected the idea, deciding it might be better to wait until later before telling him. He was such a private person; she doubted he would like the idea that everyone in the village was aware of all that was going on.
Much too soon it was time for Amanda to retire to her rooms. She protested vociferously, but when her uncle gave her a warning look she accepted the unspoken command with a martyred sigh. "Will you go with me, Uncle Wyatt?" she pleaded, apparently hoping to postpone the inevitable a few minutes more. "Please?"
Wyatt looked down into her dark blue eyes, his lips twitching at the tears gathering there. "Oh, very well, you shameless wheedler," he murmured, sweeping her up into his arms and depositing a quick kiss on her cheek. "I'll take you . . . this time. But don't think I can be this easily manipulated again."
"Don't believe a word of what he says, Lady Amanda." Ambrose was laughing as he joined them. "Where the ladies are concerned, your uncle, like most poor men, is aught but putty."
"What's putty?" Amanda's brow wrinkled.
"Never mind, poppet." Wyatt shot Ambrose an annoyed scowl. "I'll be down in a few minutes, Royston. I trust you won't shock Miss Pringle with your forward ways while
I am gone."
Ambrose gave Nia a sly wink. "Miss Pringle strikes me as more than capable of keeping me in my place should I be so bold as to forget it," he drawled. "But to avoid temptation, I believe I shall also retire. It was a long ride up from London, and it will be an even longer ride back." He turned to Nia and bowed with the grace of a skilled courtier.
"Miss Pringle, it was a delight seeing you again. May I hope to see more of you when this sorry fellow brings you and Lady Amanda back to the city?"
"You may hope whatever you please, Mr. Royston," Nia replied, enjoying his lighthearted teasing. "In the meanwhile, allow me to wish you a good night. Amanda, dearest, I shall peek in on you in a little bit. All right?"
Amanda gave a happy nod, and the three of them departed. Nia supposed she should go up to her own rooms, but she was loathe for the evening to end. The French windows were standing open, and she caught the sweet smell of roses wafting on the soft breeze. On an impulse she stepped out onto the balcony, leaning against the stone balustrade as she looked out over the gardens.
How beautiful it was, she thought, her eyes taking in the moonlit flowers and dark, shadowy walks. It was like something out of a dream, and for a moment she imagined herself there, with Wyatt at her side. He would stop to pick a rose, she decided, her lips curving at the romantic fancy. He'd raise it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the closed petals before offering it to her. His dark eyes would meet hers as her fingers closed around the stem. And then . . .
The sound of a footstep behind her shattered the tantalizing image, and she whirled to see the tall shape of a man standing in the shadows. It took her a few seconds to recognize Wyatt's broad shoulders, and when she did her breath escaped with a relieved sigh.
"Oh! Your Grace, you startled me," she said, resting her gloved hand against her galloping heart. "I didn't recognize you standing there."
Wyatt stepped out into the silvery moonlight, his eyes resting on Nia's face. "I'm sorry," he apologized in a deep voice. "I should have made my presence known sooner, but you looked so lost in thought I hated to disturb you." He was standing before her, so close he was almost touching her. Almost.
The Dutiful Duke Page 17
