A Season for Love

by Blair Bancroft

  “No-o!” Alfie Grubbs howled. “Woman’s a giant. Ain’t goin’ near ’er, I’m not.”

  “It’s the boy, I’m telling ye, the boy that matters,” Flann McCollum insisted. “To a dook it’s the heir that counts. Worth twice the women or the sparklers, he is.”

  “We agreed—” said Alfie Grubbs.

  “We agreed to do what’d get us passage money to the Canadas—”

  “While givin’ the dook what-fer about niver seein’ what’s under his nose,” Bert Tunney added grimly.

  “Don’t want no female,” Alfie grumbled into his pint.

  “The jewels’ll fill our pockets right fine,” Bert urged. “Even after the fence takes ’is cut, we’ll have more than we ever seen before in our lives.”

  “I seen too many starvin’ children,” said Flann McCollum. “The dook’s brats can suffer a bit in return.”

  “They suffer, it’s the end for us all,” Alfie whined. “Y’ kin have all the gold in the Bank of England and no place to spend it if’n we’re dead and buried.”

  “Cowards,” Bert Tunney taunted. “It’s the brats’ll be dead and buried long before me, I’m telling y’.”

  Gloom descended. Into the silence Flann McCollum raised his mug. “To whatever comes,” he said. “And the Divil take the hindmost.”

  “To whatever comes,” echoed Tunney and Alfie Grubbs. They clicked their mugs together and, solemnly, drained their pints.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Sixteen

  Before seating herself in the drawing room at Longville House, Miss Emily Bettencourt pulled the delicate royal blue and gilt armchair closer to Lady Caroline so their conversation would not be overheard by Emily’s aunt or by the duchess, who were enjoying a comfortable coze in front of the fireplace. Miss Bettencourt—modestly clad in an unadorned gown of primrose dimity, her warm brown hair simply styled in a coif—was a pattern card of maidenly propriety. Until she looked directly at Lady Caroline, and her speaking gray eyes, tinged with anxiety, seemed to fill her face. “Do you . . . do you think Mr. Trimby-Ashford cares for me, or is he simply being kind?” she whispered.

  “He has been in your pocket at each event we have attended,” Caroline responded with some surprise. “How can you doubt that he cares for you?”

  For a moment Emily played with her gloves; her gaze dropped to her slippers. “He is Lord Frayne’s particular friend,” she murmured. “I fear he is merely being polite. You have kindly included me in your company, and he is always with Lord Frayne. Yes,” she added, bobbing her head in agreement with herself, “that must be it. With Lord Frayne shadowing you each evening, what else could Mr. Trimby-Ashford do but be kind to your companion.”

  “You are not a mere companion, Emily,” Caroline protested. “You are my friend.”

  “I—I would like to think so,” Emily ventured after several beats of silence, “but, truly, I am Lady Jen’s—Her Grace’s friend. You have had me thrust on you, I fear.”

  “True,” Caroline agreed quite casually, “but, amazingly, I find I like you.”Emily favored her with a grateful and somewhat watery smile. “But I must admit,” Caroline continued, “I am the last person you should ask about love. The example I have seen in my own family does not lead to romantical notions in the style of Romeo and Juliet or Lancelot and Guinevere.”

  “Abelard and Eloise,” Emily intoned, adding, “but they all came to sad ends.”

  “You are quite right,” Caroline admitted. The two young ladies sighed in unison. “That the most famous lovers in history came to tragic or disastrous ends,” she added consideringly, “ is scarcely a recommendation for finding love in marriage.” Both girls nodded, acknowledging the enigma of a world that made supposedly romantic legends of unhappy love affairs.

  Suddenly, Emily perked up, her customary calm confidence restored by fond memories. “My parents were happy together. Although my mother died when I was twelve, my recollections are quite clear. They adored each other and rarely quarreled.”

  “There is an exception to every rule,” Caroline pronounced grandly, unmoved by the Bettencourts’ fidelity.

  “Look at Lady Jen—the duchess,” Emily told her. “Have you noticed the way she looks at your father? She is mad for him, I assure you. She never would have married him else. Everyone knew she was devoted to Captain Wharton. The military ladies expected her to wear the willow for the rest of her life. We were quite astounded when we heard of her betrothal. Truly, Caroline, it has to be love match.”

  “Don’t be absurd—” Caroline broke off, considering the matter. “Very well,” she pronounced slowly, “I will concede the duchess may have a tendre for my father, but to him she is a mere convenience, nothing more. A mother for Laurence, a chaperon for me.” As if by pronouncing this falsehood she could make it so. As if she could keep her father solely to herself by declaring his wife a non-entity. Caroline repressed a niggling twinge of shame.

  Emily ran her fingers along the royal blue upholstery and gilded wood of the chair arm. “Caroline . . . I believe you may be wrong,” she offered softly. “I learned many things while growing up in the tail of an army. One was the look of true love and devotion. The way Lady Jen and Captain Gordon looked at each other, even when he was dying. I’ve seen the duke look at the duchess that way. Possibly he is not aware of the strength of his feelings, but if I were a wagering woman, I would stake a good deal on my being right.”

  When Lady Caroline remained stubbornly silent, Emily demanded, “Do you not wish your father to be happy?” The silence dragged on. “Caroline, Lady Jen—that’s how she was called on the Peninsula—was known throughout the army for her kindness to others, for her willingness to help wherever she could, even in the worst situations. And she was known for her steadfast devotion to Captain Gordon Wharton. Lady Jen was everyone’s idol. The men adored her, and the women attempted to follow her lead. You should count your blessings you have such a woman for your step-mother. And I assure you she deserves to be called something more cordial than ‘Your Grace’!”

  As Miss Bettencourt’s defense of the second Duchess of Longville grew more heated, her voice had risen until the rather shrill “Your Grace” brought turned heads and fixed stares from both the duchess and Emily’s aunt.

  “I beg your pardon,” Emily said to the older ladies, who, sensitive to her embarrassment, immediately returned to their conversation. Miss Bettencourt, completely mortified by the duchess’s notice and possibly embarrassing her friend from army days, clasped her hands in her lap and stared at her fingers as if she had never seen them before.

  “I knew you must be very brave.” Caroline spoke quietly to Emily’s bent head. “Following the drum is only for the hardiest of souls. Believe me, I am aware that your knowledge of the world is far greater than mine. And, yet, somehow I had already guessed at the truth about the duchess. She is, you see, everything my mother was not. She is strong, courageous, loyal. And, yes, even a naive fool like myself can see that she loves him. And I fear I must admit I have seen the way he looks at her when she does not know he is looking. ’Tis positively scandalous for one of his years. He never looked at my mama like that, I am certain of it.” But not even to Emily would she mention seeing the duke and his new duchess clasped together on a bench in the Dark Walk.

  “Oh, my dear!” Emily cried, raising her head. A swift glance at the duchess, and she once again lowered her voice to a whisper. “I am certain he must have looked at your mama so when you were younger.”

  “Perhaps,” Caroline sighed, “but I remember nothing of the kind.”

  “Caroline . . . if there is one thing I learned in the army it is that life is not fair. All too often the finest men died while the gamesters, the cheats, the liars, and the rakes escaped battle after battle with nary a hair out of place.”

  “You give a very good scold,” Caroline pronounced. “Possibly even better than Miss Tompkins.”

  “I am a beast!”

  “No. You are a better fri
end than I deserve,” Caroline said. “I truly hope that Mr. Trimby-Ashford appreciates what a gem he has found in you.”

  “We have come full circle,” Emily murmured.

  “And you are just as confused as when we started.”

  “I fear so.”

  “But I am not,” Caroline asserted quietly. “I dug in my heels and refused to regard the duchess in a fair manner. You have made me look within to a place where I did not wish to go. And I have, indeed, found myself wanting.”

  “I was far too harsh,” Emily declared. “Please forgive me, I had not the right.”

  “A friend always has the right,” Caroline replied. She reached out and touched the fingers that were still tightly clasped in Emily’s lap.

  The two young ladies looked each other in the eye. For the first time that morning, they smiled.

  “Ah, good morning, Sarah,” said the duchess as she entered the sunlit morning room on the ground floor of Longville House.

  In spite of knees that weren’t as nimble as they once were, Miss Sarah Tompkins sprang to her feet and executed the perfect curtsy. “Your Grace,” she murmured. “I am waiting for Huntley, who is with the duke.”

  Jen waved Miss Tompkins back to her chair. “You are welcome in any portion of the house at any time, Sarah. No explanation is needed. Indeed, the duke tells me we have you to thank for the children’s excellent upbringing.”

  “Not at all, Your Grace,” Sarah Tompkins protested, if feebly. “I am convinced Lady Caroline was born with proper manners.”

  Since they both recognized the polite falsehood for what it was and both fervently wished to avoid any discussion of the first duchess, Jen asked Miss Tompkins if she were enjoying her stay in London. The governess swiftly revealed she had been taking full advantage of her half days, having visited an astonishing number of improving educational exhibits in the short few weeks she had been in town. Since the duchess herself had not seen a quarter of the art or historical displays mentioned by Miss Tompkins, she was once again beset by an attack of inadequacy. Her husband seemed to have an inborn knowledge of art and history that she could never match. Undoubtedly, the result of his superior upbringing, plus all those years at Eton and Oxford. In contrast, he must think her a dolt.

  Yet, Jen reminded herself with some satisfaction, it was a well-known fact that gentlemen did not care for bluestockings.

  The duchess was not permitted to examine this conundrum. Running steps were heard in the hall. Laurence Carlington, Marquess of Huntley, burst through the open doorway and threw himself at Miss Tompkins, crying, “I won’t, I won’t, I won’t! Where’s Caroline? I want Caroline!”

  “Laurence!” Much shocked, Sarah Tompkins reminded her charge he was in the presence of the duchess. He must stand and make his bow.

  “No! She wants me gone. She hates me.” His voice rose to a wail. “I want Caroline. I want to go home.”

  Jen jumped up and attempted to take the sobbing little boy in her arms. “Laurence, I do not hate you. I assure you I love you as if you were my very own boy.” The marquess stiffened his narrow shoulders and tightened his grip on Sarah Tompkins.

  “Please, Laurence,” Jen urged, “tell me what has happened. I will do my best to mend the problem.”

  “He says I must go to school,” Laurence sobbed. “George has told me about school. It is an awful place with great bullies and paddlings . . . and grim professors and so much work your brainbox fair busts. I do not want to go!”

  “George?” Jen inquired, baffled.

  “One afternoon a week ago,” Miss Tompkins explained, “Huntley and Susan joined the children of three other families for games and general improvement of their manners outside the family. I fear young George Wentworth passed along tales from an older brother.”

  The duchess, frowning, stayed on her knees beside her step-son. “When is your birthday, Laurence?”

  “Twenty November . . . Your Grace.”

  “You will be eight?” Laurence, swallowing an errant sob, merely nodded.

  “You know, Laurence,” Jen said as calmly and quietly as she could manage, “your papa probably went off to Eton when he was eight. It’s what the sons of titled gentlemen do. And I know your papa was so very happy to have a little boy that he wants to be certain he does everything exactly the way it is supposed to be—”

  “No!” Laurence screamed, his fears rapidly turning into a temper tantrum. “No, no, no, I won’t go. I want Caroline! She’ll tell him. She’ll take me home, I know she will. Where’s Caroline?”

  “She is not here at the moment, Laurence,” Jen soothed. “She has gone shopping with her friend Emily.”

  “I want her. I want her now.”

  Sarah Tompkins, looking truly shaken, stood up, hauling the young marquess up with her. “I’ll take him upstairs, Your Grace. I fear there’s no reasoning with him now.”

  “Yes, of course,” Jen murmured, equally stricken. As the governess led the still-sobbing boy out of the room, the duchess followed their progress with anguished eyes. How to tell a small boy there was no “home,” that the cottage in Little Stoughton had already been let to another family? How to explain to his father that the boy had suffered too many upheavals in his life of late, that his entrance into Eton should be put off for a year?

  Mentally, Jenny put on her marching boots, then headed down the hall toward the bookroom. Surely . . . they had been so close of late, particularly since those delicious moments at Vauxhall. Surely Marcus would listen to her. Would understand.

  The bookroom door was closed tight. Not unusual when the duke wished to go over the many government papers with which he dealt each day, but still . . . not the best sign of her husband’s mood. Softly, Jen scratched at the door, then opened it a crack and peeked inside.

  “Go away,” the Duke of Longville growled, without looking up from his perusal of a stack of fine vellum.

  “I wish to speak with you,” Jen declared, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her.

  Marcus leaned back in his burgundy leather arm chair and regarded his wife with open hostility. “If you have come to plead the brat’s case, you are fair and far out. He goes to school, and there’s an end on it.” The duke bent his head to the papers on his desk, an obvious gesture of dismissal.

  “He has had too many changes lately, Marcus,” Jen told him in forthright tones. “He needs to become accustomed to the loss of his mother, to having a larger, and quite different, family. He needs to feel loved and secure, certain that we will all be here when he comes home from school. Indeed, he does not yet think of this as his home at all. To him, home is still in Little Stoughton.”

  “Then it is time he grew up and learned the world is not always the way—”

  “He is seven years old, Marcus. He has plenty of time to grow up. Do not force him to it,” Jen begged.

  “Enough! My son will do as he is told. As will my duchess,” His Grace, the Duke of Longville, emphasized on a more ominous note.

  The room quivered with outraged silence. Then Jenny Norville Wharton Carlington, Duchess of Longville, straightened to attention. She snapped off a smart salute. “Aye, Your Grace. At once, Your Grace. By your command, Your Grace.” In all the glory of a rose silk day gown with a ruched hem, the duchess executed a formal military turn and marched from the room, never looking back to see if her husband was watching her or had returned to his stack of papers.

  That night, when the Duke of Longville turned the doorknob leading to his wife’s bedchamber, it failed to move. He jiggled it, tried again. Locked, by God. Marcus was so genuinely shocked, he wandered, unseeing, back through his dressing chamber to his own room, where he slumped down on the side of his bed. It had to be an accident, the lock had to be stuck. Jenny would never do this. It wasn’t in her nature. She was warm and loving . . . and he needed her. They could not be quarreling over something so simple as Laurence going to school, something that was an undeniable part of the boy’s heritage.

/>   Rising, the duke moved softly back through the dressing room, once again trying his wife’s door. Locked. He thought of tapping on the door, dismissed it. His wife had quite deliberately shut him out, the wretch.

  He’d done it again. Married a woman as volatile as Amy. Amy who had denied him his rights for years on end. Amy who had left him rather than be a proper wife.

  But Jen—Jen wasn’t like that. Jen was strong. Jen was everything Amy was not.

  Yet she had locked him out. Just as Amy had.

  Striding back to his bedchamber on a whirlwind of temper, the Duke of Longville grabbed up a crystal brandy snifter and shied it into the fireplace, where it shattered in a hundred satisfying pieces. He was the Duke of Longville, by God, and his children would do as they were told.

  And so would his wife.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bert Tunney stifled a grunt as, with the aid of Flann McCollum’s cupped hands, he hauled himself up and over the fence that separated the mews from the Longville House gardens. As the lightest in weight, Alfie had been first over the fence, easily boosted by Flann and Bert, and was already waiting below.

  A sharp exclamation. A hissed, but pungent expletive. Bert Tunney thudded onto the ground, still swearing. “A nail! Tore m’ pants on a blasted nail. Blood’s running down m’ leg.”

  “Shut your bleedin’ mouth, or we’re done fer,” Alfie Grubbs hissed as Flann McCollum dropped lightly to the ground beside them.

  “A great ox ye are,” the Irishmen said with feeling. “Left y’ home we should, if we didn’t need an extra pair of peepers.”

  “Never said I was anything but an honest carter,” Tunney protested, much affronted. “Can’t expect me to know nothing about the dub-lay.”