by Carla Kelly
Smathers smiled at that and she had to agree that she sounded ridiculous.
‘No, Grace, he is a member of your government, also assigned, as I am, to parolees. We work together, representing our governments. By now, I would call him a friend.’
She thought about the letters she had written to Mr Selway, sent to an anonymous postal box in Exeter, and how swiftly they were answered. She considered the implication and felt her face grow hot with guilt.
‘The letter I sent to Mr Selway betrayed Rob, didn’t it?’
He nodded and this time she saw nothing but sympathy in his eyes. ‘I’ll take it one step further, Grace, and you won’t care for this: I am the one who checks that postal box at least twice a week. I am the person who paid the tradesmen and sent you funds to keep things going at the dower house. I am the one who wrote you notes saying “Trust no one”, signed with an S.’
‘S for Selway, S for Smathers,’ she whispered.
‘Yes, as it happened. I received that last letter meant, as all the others were, for Mr Selway. You told me where to locate Rob and I found him.’
Grace slapped Mr Smathers as hard as she could. He made no resistance as she pummelled him again and again until she was blinded by tears and leaning against his chest. When she felt herself sag, he picked her up and deposited her on the sofa.
She turned on her side and sobbed into Mrs Wilson’s embroidered cushion, which Mr Smathers had put under her head. She cried until there was nothing left except a whimper, aware that his hand remained on her shoulder the whole time.
He waited until she was silent before he spoke. ‘Grace, you don’t know who your enemies are. I do.’
He was kneeling beside the sofa, his hand still on her shoulder. ‘You are Lord Thomson’s butler!’ she said. ‘You cannot deny that he said his butler had found that miniature of the real Captain Duncan. I remember it. He looked right at you!’
Smathers shook his head. ‘Grace, who was standing behind me?’
She thought and sucked in her breath. ‘No! You are lying.’
‘Who was it?’ His voice was intense, relentless as always.
Grace closed her eyes, recalling as clearly as if the matter had unfolded just an hour ago. There was Lord Thomson, looking smug and satisfied, Rob standing close to her, and Emery.
‘Emery,’ she whispered.
‘Emery,’ he repeated.
Grace sat up and pressed both hands to her head. ‘No! He is one of Lord Thomson’s groundsmen, turned off when that penny pincher reduced his staff. He’s been watching you!’
Smathers sat beside her on the sofa. ‘Before the parole, had you ever seen him on Lord Thomson’s estate?’
Grace considered the question. She shook her head, remembering that her few visits to the estate had only taken place when old Lord Thomson was too feeble to make his daily visit to the bakery. Come to think of it, Emery had not been present for the reading of the will, when other staff members were.
‘I never saw him,’ she said finally. ‘I just believed him.’ She frowned. ‘As for him watching you…’ She gasped, her hand to her mouth. ‘Once Mrs Wilson told Rob and me that she thought you were watching Emery and not the other way around. We all laughed!’
‘She was absolutely right. Young Lord Thomson is a petty and spiteful man. He wanted very much to separate you from, well, from whom I thought was Captain Duncan, so he could have him killed. It’s one of those terms in a parole that all prisoners must beware of, death if they stray.’
‘But why?’ she whispered. ‘Why is he so vindictive? He never knew Captain Duncan. There was never any possibility that the captain would claim or receive any part of the estate.’
‘True.’ Mr Smathers stared straight ahead, silent. He finally looked at her again. ‘I wish I knew. Are some men that small and mean?’
Grace pressed Mr Smathers’s sodden handkerchief to her forehead. ‘I thought you were the small and mean one.’ She couldn’t help the way her eyes narrowed. ‘Maybe you still are. How did you manage to get into Lord Thomson’s house as his butler?’
‘You still don’t believe me, do you?’
He asked it calmly and she answered the same way. ‘Why should I? Why did Mr Selway take such an interest in Captain Duncan that he would plant you—if that’s the right word…’
‘It seems to fit,’ he agreed.
‘…plant you in Lord Thomson’s house? You obviously haven’t done this for other parolees, have you?’
‘I have not, Grace. There wasn’t the urgency.’
‘What was different about Captain Duncan?’
When he smiled, she decided maybe she had been wrong to think he had shark eyes. They were deep brown, but not shark eyes, because she saw the expression in them now. Maybe she had never looked for it before.
‘You’ve hit on it. There was something different about Captain Duncan.’ He took her hand and she did not pull away.
‘Couldn’t you just have left him alone? Surely it is only a matter of weeks until this war is officially over?’
‘I am not as trusting as you are, Grace. I do know this, it is devilish hard for secrets like that to be kept, even among people with the best of intentions. I couldn’t risk Lord Thomson’s thugs finding Rob Inman. Lord Thomson knows he isn’t Captain Duncan now, of course, but as I said earlier, he is a mean excuse for a man.’
She nodded and tightened her grip on Mr Smathers’s hand. ‘I’m sorry I hit you.’ She felt her face go rosy.
He released her hand and stood up, pulling her up. ‘You need to hear the whole story.’
‘From Mr Selway?’
He nodded. ‘Partly. And someone else, someone who might be able to explain Lord Thomson. Gracie, pack your best dress. We’re going to London.’
She hung back, weary to the marrow in her bones. ‘Why should I trust you, Mr Smathers?’
‘I can’t think of a single reason,’ he said finally. ‘Grace, do you trust anyone?’
‘Only Rob.’
‘Trust me, too.’
Chapter Thirty
‘We called you Ugly Butler.’
Nahum Smathers threw back his head and laughed. ‘Was it my bald head? My pock marks? My surly demeanour?’
‘All that and more,’ Grace said, looking out the chaise window at the scenery. ‘It’s greener in Quimby than here.’
‘Don’t change the subject!’
‘I think I should. You already know me as a crabby, contentious person. Why should I give you more ammunition?’
He only smiled, put his reading spectacles higher on his nose again and returned his attention to the papers on his lap desk. Grace continued her perusal of the landscape. She had not been to London in her life, but she had never thought to make a rapid journey like this one. They had decided it would be better to get there as fast as possible and avoid stopping at an inn. Last night they had slept shoulder to shoulder in the post-chaise.
She woke up once in the night, thinking for just a moment that it was Rob’s head lolling on her shoulder. Her heart thudded in her chest, then sank as she remembered it was Nahum Smathers, the man she had vowed to hate until she died. For a long time, she stared out of the window, hoping she was right to trust him, wanting to believe him, even as she doubted.
‘You still doubt me,’ he stated, looking up from his papers, reading her mind.
‘I can’t help it. You’re playing a deep game.’
‘A very deep game,’ he agreed, mincing no words—very much the man he had always been, she realised. ‘We are going to Half Moon Street, where I am going to ask to speak to Lord Thomson’s butler, Emery. You will stay in the post-chaise across the street, because I trust no one.’
‘What a pair we are,’ she murmured. He merely shrugged and returned to his work.
* * *
Miles later, he looked up. ‘Then we’re going to Teddington. It’s not far from London and there is someone you have to meet.’
‘Please tell me it is Rob!’
she burst out.
‘He’s in Dartmoor, as I told you. Pray for swift winds to guide the treaty ship to England. And pray it arrives ratified,’ he concluded, under his breath.
* * *
They arrived at Half Moon Street after dark. Smathers directed the coachman to stop directly across the street from an imposing town house. He took a small box from his greatcoat.
‘I will ask the footman to produce Emery, because I promised Lord Thomson I would return that miniature of Captain Duncan, the one Emery found.’
‘So you say,’ she couldn’t help murmuring.
He gave her a sour look. The Ugly Butler I know and despise, Grace thought, returning his sour look with one of her own.
‘Grace, you have to trust someone!’ he declared. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Or not, I suppose. When Emery comes to the door, you will see him.’
She nodded, embarrassed at her shortcomings.
‘Then we will depart immediately. When Emery opens the box, he’ll find nothing but a stone in it and a rude note from me. I had better make myself scarce.’
‘Do you have the miniature?’
He patted his inside pocket. ‘Aye, and it’s going to Teddington to the man who should have it.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Grace said. ‘The real man who should have it is Lord Thomson—well, my Lord Thomson.’
‘No. We’re going to spend a few moments with the Duke of Clarence.’ He eyed her. ‘That’s why I asked you to wear your best dress.’ He chuckled. ‘Close your mouth, Grace. You’re catching flies!’
She did as he said, full of questions that she kept to herself, because he was already out of the post-chaise. Grace leaned back, making her profile as small as possible as she watched Ugly Butler lift the knocker.
After a moment the door was opened by a footman. Smathers shook his head and waited outside, the box in his hand. Grace sucked in her breath when Emery appeared next, dressed much grander than she remembered, but Emery, all the same.
‘Damn you,’ Grace muttered. ‘What fools you made of us.’
She watched Smathers take his casual time, chatting with Emery, then handing over the box. When the door closed, he wasted not a minute getting back into the chaise, after a quick word with the coachman.
‘Maybe I shouldn’t have written that note,’ Smathers commented as they tore through London’s streets as fast as was possible without attracting unwanted attention. ‘I couldn’t resist telling him what I thought. Rather like you, Grace.’
She nodded, staring into the dark. ‘Why the Duke of Clarence?’
‘I think his Grace would rather tell you himself. He’s expecting us, by the way.’
* * *
Gradually the city fell away, as homes turned into manors, and then elegant estates. Finally they paused at one gate, which opened quickly when Smathers held out a sheet of paper stamped with an impressive seal.
Grace looked down at her best dress. Like her other dress, it was practical, tidy and oceans away from the pastel muslins and silk she remembered as the daughter of an over-extended baronet with no money, but miles of pretension. She brushed at the dress, suddenly proud of her own efforts that had kept her alive and productive, even though the bottom had fallen out of her world of privilege. She sat taller, calm and not ashamed. This was who she was now and it was enough.
She followed Mr Smathers into Bushy House’s opulent foyer. She vowed not to gawk and stare like a misplaced milkmaid, but it took all her strength. What she had no resistance against was the appearance of Mr Selway, who came toward her with both hands outstretched. He seemed to know she would fold herself into his embrace without a word. Unable to help herself, she sobbed into his handsome suit, then reached out blindly for a handkerchief from the tall man standing next to him.
‘Blow your nose, dearie,’ he advised, sounding like a man with much female experience, or possibly many children of his own.
She did as he said, then took a good look. She gulped, then dropped a deep curtsy.
‘Your Grace,’ she murmured, ‘I didn’t mean to weep all over your handkerchief.’
The Duke chuckled. ‘Miss…Miss Curtis, is it?’
‘Yes, your Grace.’
‘I have five daughters. Five! I learned years ago to be amply handkerchiefed.’
Grace wanted to smile, but found she could not. She blew her nose and glanced again at Mr Selway, also dressed impeccably in black and looking more elegant than a mere solicitor. This was no place to speak what was in her heart, not here in the Duke of Clarence’s residence. Then she thought of Rob, suffering in Dartmoor, and could not help herself.
‘Mr Selway, we needed you!’ She hadn’t meant it to come out so loud.
There was no denying the sorrow in Mr Selway’s eyes. ‘And we failed you both,’ he said. ‘More shame to us.’
She was silent then, embarrassed at her outburst. The Duke of Clarence led her to a sofa. ‘I have daughters,’ he said again and this time his voice was almost fatherly.
Grace swallowed down her tears. ‘Oh, please, your Grace, we didn’t mean to deceive anyone! When I knelt by Captain Duncan, he was dying! He asked me to choose someone else. I did, not thinking it would hurt.’
The duke said a strange thing then; she knew she would never forget it.
‘Did he die bravely?’
Grace put the handkerchief to her mouth, remembering the filthy prison, the stench, the seamen crowded around their dying captain. Without a word of complaint, Daniel Duncan, bastard son of Lord Thomson, had begged her to choose life for someone else.
‘If he had been your son, your Grace, you would have had no reason to be ashamed of him.’
She knew she was presumptuous. To her amazement, the duke bowed his head and swallowed hard, his hand to his eyes. She put her hand on his elegant sleeve and he covered it with his own. They sat together, heads nearly touching, until she wanted to put her other hand on his cheek and console him for a sorrow she did not understand.
No one in the room said anything. All she heard was the ticking of a clock. He raised his eyes to hers finally.
‘Miss Curtis, he was my son.’
‘My God,’ she whispered, then did touch his cheek briefly. ‘I am so sorry.’
The Duke of Clarence took a long moment to collect himself. Grace glanced at the others: Mr Selway, impeccable and inscrutable as a good lawyer; Mr Smathers’s lips tight together in the grip of his own emotion. She returned her gaze to the duke, watching him gather himself together.
When he was in control, he returned his gaze to her. They might have been the only people in the room. ‘Miss Curtis, you are probably wondering what the devil I am saying.’
He smiled, but there was no overlooking the pain in his eyes. ‘Of all people, you deserve an explanation.’
‘Mr…Mr Smathers did tell me he had been assigned to watch over Captain Duncan, but he would not tell me why.’
The duke nodded. ‘That is rightfully my office.’ He stood up, motioning the rest of them to remain seated and walked to the fireplace, where he stared for a long moment into the flames. When he looked at her again, he was himself once more. ‘My dear, I suppose you know that my nickname is “Sailor Billy”.’
She nodded. ‘Did you not join the Royal Navy at a tender age, your Grace?’
‘Thirteen. At the age of fifteen—nearly sixteen—I participated in the occupation of New York City, during the American War. Lord Thomson—a great friend of my poor, mad father—was billeted there, too. My father asked him to keep an eye on me.’
‘My Lord Thomson?’ she asked, startled.
The duke smiled at that. ‘Ah, yes. Mr Selway said you took him Quimby Crèmes, when he could no longer totter to the village.’
‘He was a crotchety old fellow, but I liked him.’ Grace blushed when everyone laughed. ‘Well, he was! But, your Grace, Lord Thomson was Captain Duncan’s father.’
The duke waggled his hand. ‘While it is true we both had our eyes on M
ollie Duncan—lovely minx!—he gave me, uh, prior claim.’ He coughed discreetly. ‘Droit de seigneur and all that.’
‘Oh,’ she said, not sure where to look.
The Duke was obviously made of sterner stuff. ‘Come now! We know what kind of man I am! I have ten children by Mrs Jordan and I love them all. I rather believe I was Daniel Duncan’s father.’
So did Grace suddenly. She thought of the miniature and looked at the Duke of Clarence, imagining him much younger. The resemblance was there, although the deep dimple must have come from Mollie Duncan.
He sat down again beside her. ‘My dear, perhaps you can appreciate the moment. I was just sixteen, and we were preparing to pull out of New York City. Mollie had come to me, expecting some sort of help for her…er…dilemma. That was when Lord Thomson stepped in and settled the matter by assuring her that he would do the right thing. What could she say?’ He sighed. ‘As always, politics reared its ugly head, and I was…er…rather precocious in the begetting game.’
Grace couldn’t help smiling.
‘What kind of scandal would my sins have caused my father during this delicate time?’ The Duke glared at Mr Smathers for a moment. ‘And, sir, your General Washington had just got wind that I was in New York City and put a bounty on my head! The streets were suddenly not safe for Sailor Billy.’
Nonplussed, Mr Smathers returned a calm gaze of his own. ‘All’s fair in war, sir.’
The Duke looked at Grace again. ‘So, my dear, your crotchety old marquis paid Mollie a small sum annually for the boy’s upkeep and kept me informed of his progress. When we learned he was imprisoned in Dartmoor, I enlisted Mr Selway—my personal barrister, not a mere solicitor—to have the captain paroled to Quarle.’
‘But, your Grace, how—why—did I come into the picture?’ Grace asked.
‘Lord Thomson knew he was dying. He wanted someone to watch over Captain Duncan. I believe he allocated the princely sum of thirty pounds per annum to you, both for your help with my son, and to reward you for your kindness to him, when no one else was kind.’
