A Season for Love

by Blair Bancroft

  “Oh, my dear,” Jen murmured, tears rushing to her eyes.

  “Therefore, it is not easy for me to say the word love,” Marcus told her. “I fear you will jump up and run screaming from the room.”

  “I promise you I shall not.” Jen clasped her hands beneath her chin and waited, eyes still ostensibly wide and wary. But in the green depths the flicker of hope had become a steadily increasing glow.

  The Duke of Longville sucked in a deep breath, his senses attuned only to the gentle hint of lavender, roses, and woman who was his wife. His Jen. His companion. And lover. “My dear Jen,” he declared, “I married you because I wished to spend the rest of my life with you. And I want to do that because I love you. There now . . . you hold my life and all my secrets in your hand.”

  A very long time later the duke stirred and remembered to murmur something into the ear of his exhausted but exceedingly happy wife. “I seem to have forgotten to tell you,” he whispered, “before supper tonight I went up to the nursery and told Laurence he would not have to go to Eton until next year. You were quite right, my dear. A very salutary lesson it was to learn that, on occasion, I might be wrong. Keep up your good efforts. I daresay I shall be wrong another time or two in the next forty years.”

  The Duchess of Longville snuggled close to her husband, the warmth of their nakedness threatening to set off another bout of marital bliss. She could not reply, as her heart was so full it seemed to overflow and stopper up her mouth. This was a moment to be tucked away in her memory forever.

  Incredibly, Marcus loved her. All would be well.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Laurence,” Lady Caroline declared, “must you look so hangdog? ’Tis only one short visit.”

  “Why does not Susan have to go?” The Marquess of Huntley’s chin was set in a stubborn line.

  “Young man, you have barely escaped your papa’s wrath about school. Pray do not add anything more.”

  “Papa has forgiven me,” Laurence stated grandly. “He is pleased to have another whole year to make the acquaintance of his heir.”

  Lady Caroline crossed her arms, glaring at Laurence with that look so common to females afflicted with younger brothers. “Indeed, your lordship,” she countered. “Do you recall Miss Tompkins’s description of what Red Indians do to their victims?”

  “They scalp them!” the marquess responded with considerable relish, not at all intimidated by his sister’s outrageously exaggerated warning.

  “That is correct,” Caroline declared, grabbing a handful of her brother’s dark locks. She tightened her grip, receiving only a cheeky grin in response. “And if you do not get down those stairs at once, I shall be happy to demonstrate exactly how it is done.” With her other hand, Caroline gave her brother a sharp swat on the seat of his elegant high-waisted breeches. “Move! Your grandmother is waiting.”

  Truthfully, the children of the Duke of Longville were united in dislike of their weekly duty visits to their grandmother, for the dowager never failed to decry their exceptional upbringing in the country, far from the influence of her son, the infallible Duke of Longville. Nor did she spare their ears from the latest nasty gossip, stating firmly that they should be aware of what was being said so her grandchildren could, by excessively formal manners, demonstrate that they were pattern-cards of well behavior and put the tart-tongued tabbies to the blush.

  Fortunately, the dowager duchess’s cook had more feeling for what was appropriate for visiting grandchildren. The food served with tea continued to live up to the standards of the younger Carlingtons’ initial visit, being the only bright spot amidst the dowager’s exhortations on good behavior, moderation in all things, and quizzing Caroline for detailed descriptions of every one of her myriad activities as the London Season progressed. Truly, Caroline did not mind the latter as it diverted the conversation from the dowager’s tirades on manners and morals. And spared Laurence’s ears from the repetition of vicious gossip.

  But today—despite what she had told Laurence—Caroline’s personal reluctance to visit their grandmother was more severe than her brother’s. There could be little doubt the dowager would positively pounce upon the particular attentions being shown to her by Viscount Frayne. For weeks now, the dowager had only hinted at the topic of herself and Lord Frayne, the gauntlet never openly thrown down between them. But after the incident at the Grantley’s ball . . .

  How would she reply? Caroline wondered. Her confusion grew with each passing day. If, for some mysterious reason, Tony failed to appear at one of the events she was attending, or—even worse—if he failed to appear on the doorstep of Longville House, her day was bleak. Ruined. Dull as ditchwater.

  Yet he was a careless fribble. A town beau with nothing more to offer than a handsome face and a charming smile. A man who wished to capture her as just one more prize and be off in pursuit of the next directly after. She should be ashamed of herself. Her poor mama would be horrified to know her daughter had so ill-heeded her admonitions.

  Lady Caroline found herself paused at the bottom of the staircase, her brow furrowed in a frown, and her brother scowling at her from near the front door as if to say, “You did insist we go to grandmother’s, did you not?”

  Swiftly crossing the foyer, Caroline straightened Laurence’s lace-trimmed collar, then tweaked his floppy bow tie in place. Fresh air rushed in as Sims threw open the door and Viscount Frayne strode in.

  “Uncle Tony!” the marquess crowed in delight.

  “Frayne,” Caroline nodded, at her most formal. “I fear we are off to visit the dowager.”

  “Then allow me to offer my escort,” he responded gallantly. “I have not seen Lady Longville for some time, except for a passing nod.”

  “Capital!” Laurence exclaimed. “She will not be such a scold if you are there.”

  “You know, Huntley” said the viscount, overriding Caroline’s instant sisterly rebuke, “you are in more than a wee bit of danger of being declared a spoiled brat. As much as I agree with your papa’s decision to keep you home another year, I cannot but regret it has added unduly to your consequence. Too much petticoat government, I fear. I believe I shall recommend that Longville prepare you for Eton by toughening up your backside with a few judicious applications of a paddle—or perhaps a birch rod.”

  Caroline struggled to feel proper outrage, but could not manage it. Unfortunately, Tony was quite right. Laurence was in much need of a strong man in his life. “We should be delighted with your escort, my lord. “Micah,” she said to the second footman, “we will not need you after all.”

  “You’re walking?” Tony exclaimed.

  “’Tis scarce three blocks, uncle,” Laurence announced with scorn.

  “Nonetheless,” the viscount protested, “what about Longville’s precautions?”

  “A scant three blocks along Upper Brook Street in full daylight?” Caroline mocked. “Come, Tony, do not be absurd. We go every Thursday afternoon. I assure you there has not been a single menacing creature in sight.”

  “Oh, very well,” the viscount grumbled, “I shall send my curricle back to the stables with my groom and”—with a grand gesture, he offered his arm to Lady Caroline—“we shall be off to Upper Brook Street. Step lively, sprout,” he said to Laurence. “Not even I have the audacity to keep your grandmother waiting.”

  When Georgiana, Dowager Duchess of Longville, caught sight of Viscount Frayne, her eyes lit with the feral gleam of a cat stalking a mouse. She could not have been more pleased by this addition to the Thursday afternoon tea party. She could scarcely wait for her guests to be seated. Her attack came the instant all four cups of tea had been poured.

  “I trust your addition to our small group is not in the nature of being avuncular,” she declared.

  “Ma’am? Ah—Your Grace,” Tony hastily corrected, surprised to discover how easily the dowager had pierced what he had thought was his impenetrable social façade.

  “I have been informed
you run tame at Longville House and have been in my granddaughter’s pocket at every ton event; that you, in fact, made a complete cake of yourself at Harriet Grantley’s come-out ball. Now, young man, is that, or is that not, true?”

  “Grandmother,” Caroline interjected grimly, “even my papa would not dare to ask such a question.”

  “Oh, yes, he would,” Tony contributed. “He would, and he did.”

  Lady Caroline stared. The dowager chortled. “And what was your answer?” she demanded.

  Tony winked at her. “Men’s talk, dear lady. I daresay Lady Caroline already wishes me in Hades. I will not add to her perturbation. Nor to yours, Your Grace.”

  The old woman actually smiled. “If your intentions had not been honorable, Frayne, Longville would have given orders to have you turned away from the door, friend or no.”

  The viscount raised one eyebrow, but said nothing. Caroline, ready to sink, studied the carpet. Was it possible Tony and her papa had actually discussed his intentions? Marriage? Surely not. She had managed to be comfortable with Tony because he was safe. He had never made a secret of the fact that he did not plan to marry for many years yet. He was her step-mother’s brother. Family. Safe.

  She knew perfectly well he was not. Just because he had not kissed her in the Dark Walk did not mean the atmosphere had not crackled between them. Their heightened emotions had practically lit up the air around them. And that fit of temperament at the Grantley’s ball? Mortifying. Positively mortifying.

  And excessively satisfying.

  “Are there more ginger biscuits, Your Grace?” Laurence asked his grandmother, his ingenuous blue eyes declaring that he was still starving.

  “You may ring for more,” the dowager replied absently as she studied her granddaughter and the exemplary sprig of the ton who sat before her. “Frayne’s position as your uncle is awkward,” she said to Caroline, “but since Longville and I are well acquainted with a half dozen bishops and Canterbury as well, there should be no difficulty having the banns read.”

  “There will be great difficulty if the banns are read for a couple who have no intention of marrying,” Caroline declared roundly.

  The viscount, although well aware he should be outraged by the dowager’s interference, studied the carpet, lips twitching in something close to amusement. It was high time Caroline faced up to the realities of their situation. He had. The snap of the trap had thudded ominously some time since. He had had time to grow accustomed to the chains that bound so tightly. It was Caroline—so young, yet sometimes so worldly ancient—who had yet to come to terms with what had developed between them.

  “My dear child,” declared the dowager, “this young man has been your shadow for weeks now. The entire ton is expecting an announcement.”

  “The ton thought my brother an imposter.”

  “And I pointed out their mistake,” the dowager reminded Caroline. “As I point out the mistake you are making if you are not aware this fribble is courting you.”

  “He is not!”

  “Caroline,” pronounced the elder Lady Longville quite severely, “one expects young girls to be foolish, but not a Carlington. Pray recall who and what you are. If this young man is not courting you, then he is playing fast and loose with your emotions, which, I assure you, Longville would never allow. Therefore, I, too, am in expectation of an imminent announcement.”

  “You know, Your Grace,” Tony drawled reflectively, “if I had realized the extent of your ability to run away with the bit, I believe I would not have offered to play escort this afternoon.”

  “Think I’m frightening off your quarry, do you?” the dowager snapped.

  “I fear so.” Tony heaved an elaborate sigh.

  Laurence gaped, a fresh ginger biscuit caught between his teeth, while Caroline regarded both Lord Frayne and the dowager with disgust. “Come, Laurence,” she declared, rising to her feet and holding out her hand to her brother. “We must be gone. Your grandmother needs time to regain her senses.”

  Ignoring her grandchildren, the Dowager Duchess of Longville continued her colloquy with Viscount Frayne. “I shall expect an announcement, Frayne. Too long to wait for Huntley to produce great-grandchildren, but I expect I shall live to see yours, if you but put your horse to the gallop.”

  Caroline gave a tiny shriek, while Tony put one hand over his face to cover his expression. Laurence, puzzled, looked from one to the other, seeking an explanation for his grandmother’s conversation, which was even more odd than usual.

  “You are quite right, Lady Caroline,” Tony declared briskly, standing up, “it is time we left. Your Grace.” He bowed, signaling Laurence to do the same. Caroline dropped a stiff curtsy, and then they were out on the front steps, with barely enough warning for the footman to open the door.

  “Merciful heavens,” Caroline moaned as they set out toward Longville House, “I know she is difficult, but that was beyond belief. My apologies, Tony. That was perfectly shocking. I fear she is beginning to suffer from senility.”

  “I am not so sure about that,” Tony murmured, almost beneath his breath. “I fear she is more astute than you give her credit for—”

  The viscount’s final remark was never finished. Perhaps they should have been more aware of a wagon rumbling down Upper Brook Street in the late afternoon when most deliveries were made early in the morning, but—thoroughly absorbed in the problems raised by the dowager duchess—they paid no heed. With one of Bert Tunney’s most close-lipped drivers at the reins, the three conspirators threw back the canvas covering the rear of the wagon and leaped out at the unsuspecting pedestrians. Alfie Grubbs, the slightest among them, grabbed the young marquess, pulling a grain sack down over his head. It was Flann McCollum’s happy assignment to do the same for Lady Caroline, while Bert Tunney, well armed with a cosh capable of killing if used with sufficient force, felled the viscount from behind before he could so much as raise a cry.

  In a trice, the conspirators were back beneath the canvas, their victims immobilized or unconscious beside them. The wagon continued leisurely on down Upper Brook Street, heading east out of Mayfair into the heart of the city. Into the grime, the stews, the docks, and the God-only-knew-what of the East End.

  A hastily scribbled note from her husband informed the Duchess of Longville that word had come of an attack on the Belgian village of Charleroi. It was suspected the long-awaited challenge from Boney was happening at last. She was to make the duke’s excuses to Lord and Lady Randolph as he would miss their soirée that evening. He would be home when she saw him. Jen drew in a sharp breath. It had come at last. The great confrontation between Wellington and Bonaparte, with the future of Europe at stake. Although most of Captain Gordon Wharton’s surviving friends had been sent to fight the Americans, the Duchess of Longville still knew a great many of the men who would be going up against the French troops that had rallied to their former Emperor’s cause. Men who might, in fact, already be engaged in the battle to determine if countries could hold up their individual heads or must bow to the ambition of the Corsican Monster who wished to rule greater Europe. Including England, Wales, Scotland, and Ireland. A shiver wracked the duchess’s sturdy frame. How many more good men would be lost because of the greed and arrogance of Napoleon Bonaparte?

  “Your Grace.”

  Jen looked up from the duke’s note to discover the butler, looking grim, with Sarah Tompkins hovering behind him.

  Sims cleared his throat, shot a quick glance at Miss Tompkins. “Your Grace, I do not wish to alarm you, but Lady Caroline and Lord Huntley visited their grandmother as usual at tea time. They were escorted by Lord Frayne, who happened along just as they were leaving. When they did not return at their customary time, I sent ’round a footman to inquire. Lady Longville has just responded that the trio left her shortly after the hour of five and thirty.” Behind Sims, Miss Tompkins could be seen wringing her hands. “There was no sign of them along the walkway, Your Grace. I sent Kerby, Micah, and the stableboy
to check alternate routes.” The butler’s face crumpled from its habitual aplomb, genuine fear now clearly visible. “I’m that concerned, Your Grace. I believe we should send at once for the duke.”

  Jen, who had been caught up in the rumble of gun limbers, the roar of cannons, the pounding of hooves, the shrill call of trumpets, the screams of the wounded and dying, gaped at the two in front of her. Caroline and Laurence gone, with Tony at their side? On Upper Brook Street in broad daylight. Impossible!

  Sims forestalled the obvious question. “Lord Frayne would never have taken them off without sending word, Your Grace. I am certain of it. I have sent a messenger to speak with his groom.”

  “Thank you, Sims,” Jen murmured, head awhirl. “We will wait for the messenger’s return before we send for the duke. It seems Bonaparte has made his move at last, the first gambit on the battle for Europe. His Grace is very much occupied at the moment.”

  At these words Sarah Tompkins gasped, and the stately butler seemed to withdraw into himself, shoulders drooping into dejection. “Of course, Your Grace,” he muttered, looking grave.

  After seeing that Miss Tompkins was comfortably situated on a sofa, Jen paced the drawing room, acutely agitated by her inability to do anything more. Should she have sent for Marcus immediately? Drawn him away from his duties at what might be one of the most critical moments in the history of the world? Was she an idiot to take on this burden alone, even for so short a time? Would Marcus be furious?

  What did it matter? With Tony and the children gone, the wrath of the Duke of Longville was a very small matter indeed.

  “Your Grace?”

  The duchess’s head snapped up. “Yes?” she demanded.

  Sims’s Adam’s apple moved convulsively. Again, he tried to speak. “Lord Frayne’s groom reports that he has not seen his master since he was dismissed here at Longville House this afternoon. Lord Frayne’s curricle and horses have been tucked up in the mews for hours.”