by Karen Ranney
Most of the time he didn’t have a problem with that. This assignment was different. Of course his personal opinions were going to surface.
Roger rang a bell on the corner of his desk, and a few minutes later Oliver came through the door with a tray containing a teapot, two cups and saucers, a small pitcher filled with milk, and a bowl of sugar.
“I hear the duchess has returned to London,” Roger said after preparing his cup and taking a sip. “What is she like?”
Adam did the same, more to give himself time to think than because he wanted tea, especially something that was yellow, smelled of flowers, and reminded him of India. He threw in a teaspoon or two of sugar to make it palatable and managed a sip. He preferred coffee, but that was tantamount to treason here in this War Office warren.
What was the duchess like?
Sad, for one. Intriguing, for another. He wanted to ask her questions he had no business asking. Why had she married the duke? Why did she mourn the man with such ferocity two years after his death?
He couldn’t banish the memory of that look in her eyes.
“Maybe the duchess knows where the journal is,” Roger said. “Perhaps you could wheedle the information out of her.”
He doubted that was ever going to happen, especially after the events of the previous night.
“Someone else would be better in this position,” Adam said.
“You’re doing fine,” Roger said. “You’re one of the Service’s most trusted operatives. No one else could do better than you, Adam.”
If that was true, why had Roger sent another agent in to Marsley House?
He stood, knowing that they were about to go into a circular argument. Nothing he said was going to make any difference to Roger. Either Adam would have to walk away from his position at the War Office or he’d have to go back to Marsley House.
“Make a friend of her,” Roger suggested. “Be a confidant. You might even hint that you knew her husband in India. That could form a bond between the two of you.”
He doubted the duchess had much to do with her husband’s prior military career. The fact, and it disturbed him to admit it even to himself, was that he didn’t want to return to Marsley House, not even to submit his resignation and pack his belongings. He didn’t want to see the duchess again. He didn’t want to explain how resentful he felt about her grief. He didn’t want to feel a surge of compassion for her. Nor did he want to have this odd compulsion to explain that he was trying to find proof that the Duke of Marsley had been a son of a bitch and responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people.
The duchess wouldn’t mourn the bastard if she knew the truth.
Chapter Five
“I have been unable to find the hairpin, Your Grace.”
It wasn’t fair that she had to wake to Ella’s complaints. If she put the pillow over her face would that silence the woman? Suzanne doubted it.
“I’m certain it will turn up,” she said, blinking open her eyes.
Staring up at the sunburst pattern of silk over the bed didn’t banish the sound of Ella’s voice. Had it always been this grating?
“It is not among your things, Your Grace. And I’ve had the coachman check the carriage. Could you have left it at the dinner party?”
The dinner party had been a political event, a way of advancing another young man’s career. She’d gone because it had been a command from her father, only to discover that there were a great many people in attendance, more than could be adequately seated at her father’s expansive dining table. Instead of offering his guests service à la Russe, the dinner courses were arranged on the sideboards in the dining room, with the guests free to mill about or return to the food of their choice.
Had anyone else dared to entertain in such a fashion, the result would probably have been chaotic, but of course it wasn’t. Her father left nothing to chance. A bevy of footmen wandered among the guests, ready to take plates or glasses or to offer more wine.
“Your Grace?”
Suzanne opened her eyes and turned her head to find Ella standing beside the bed as she did most mornings. At least the woman retired to her own chamber at night, giving Suzanne some much needed solitude.
If she had her way, she wouldn’t have a lady’s maid at all. But George had insisted. She’d quite liked Lily, the maid who’d abruptly quit six months ago. Ella had come to Marsley House then, recommended by her solicitor. Her father had also approved of the woman, and it had just been easier to keep Ella on after that.
Ignoring what was around her, be it people or things, made life so much simpler. What did anything matter, after all? It was easier to close her eyes and pretend she was somewhere else, a special place in her mind where she was alone and not bothered by anyone’s questions or concerns.
He was suddenly there, in her mind like a storm god. A Scot wreathed in a blinding flash of lightning. Who did he think he was, speaking to her with such contempt in his voice? She’d had to endure a great deal in the last six years, but he had gone over the line. She was not going to be spoken to in such a way or be physically assaulted.
Perhaps her irritation at the majordomo was the reason she waved Ella away now.
“I don’t need your help this morning,” she said.
Ella ignored her. “Would you like to wear the silk with the ruching or the gathered skirt?”
Did it matter what she wore? That was not a comment she made to Ella. If she had said something so improvident to her maid, the woman would’ve responded with a lecture on mourning. She had passed two years, so technically she could don lavender if she wished or another subdued shade. But the color of her garments didn’t matter. She would carry around a hole in her heart for the rest of her life.
“You have a visitor, Your Grace.”
She looked at Ella in surprise. “A visitor? What time is it?”
“Nine thirty, Your Grace.”
No one called at that hour in the morning. To do so was the height of rudeness, especially when she wasn’t expecting them.
“Who is it?”
“A Mrs. Noreen Armbruster.”
“Tell her I’m not receiving visitors. Tell her I’m away. Tell her anything.”
“I would have done so ordinarily, Your Grace, but she said that you told her to call this morning, that the two of you talked last evening and specifically made an appointment. Nor does she look the type to leave without getting her way.”
Ella sniffed, which was her way of expressing disgust. Evidently Mrs. Armbruster had annoyed the maid. For that alone, Suzanne should make the effort to visit with the woman.
She didn’t remember a Mrs. Armbruster, but she didn’t say so to Ella. Nor did she confide that the night before had been a blur.
No wonder her father had insisted that she depart for home. She had probably embarrassed him in some way, but then she often did simply by being herself.
Once she would’ve cared. Once, years ago, she would’ve felt bad that they clashed so often. She would have felt that she’d let her mother down in some way.
“He doesn’t mean to be a hard man, Suzanne,” her mother had often told her. “It’s just that he wants to accomplish a great deal in his life and the rest of us are slower and get in his way.”
Edward Hackney had already accomplished a great deal. Was it enough for him? She didn’t know and she’d never ask. They didn’t have that kind of relationship. Not one of true thoughts and honest answers. Instead, he told her what he wanted her to do and she, for the most part, acceded without much clamor or fuss.
“Be kind to your father, my dearest Suzanne,” her mother had said. “Try to understand him. If something happens to me it will just be the two of you.” Had her mother known that her words would be prophetic? She’d died less than a month later.
At least her father hadn’t married again. Was that because he’d truly loved her mother and mourned her still? Or because of expediency? He couldn’t take the time or the energy to court another woman?
Another instance of never knowing.
She chose the silk with the ruching on the top of the bodice. She added a small black mourning cameo of a mother and child at the base of her throat.
“I’ll get your tonic,” Ella said.
“Not this morning.”
She stared at herself in the mirror. She was too pale. Once she might have cared more about her appearance. Now all that mattered was that she was clean and presentable.
“Your tonic, Your Grace,” Ella said.
Suzanne stood, moved away from the vanity, and headed for the sitting room door. She wasn’t going to take that vile stuff this morning. Perhaps after her meeting with the majordomo. Until then, she needed to keep her wits about her and it was difficult to do that after ingesting the green potion.
Ella trailed after her instead of remaining behind and straightening up her chambers. Ella insisted on doing the cleaning herself, rather than allowing one of the upstairs maids into the suite. Suzanne knew exactly why she did that. It was yet another way she could maintain control.
The same reason the maid was now following her down the grand staircase.
At the bottom, Suzanne turned and faced Ella, uncaring that there were at least three footmen who could overhear their conversation. She had ceased having any privacy the day she moved into Marsley House. Over the years, she’d gradually become accustomed to the fact that she would always have people listening or watching her. In a sense, the green potion had helped with that, too.
This morning, however, she was herself, albeit with a headache. “That will be all,” she said.
Her look defied the other woman to argue with her. It was probably the fact that there were witnesses that made Ella simply nod in response.
“That will be all,” she repeated.
Ella nodded once more, but this time she turned and began ascending the staircase.
Mrs. Armbruster had been put into the Persian room. George’s grandfather had named this parlor after all the artifacts he’d collected from Persia and the Far East.
Suzanne hesitated in the doorway, realizing that it had been months since she’d been in this room. Thankfully, Mrs. Thigpen was an excellent housekeeper and didn’t require daily monitoring. She felt a surge of gratitude toward the woman as well as the staff. There was no dust anywhere. The floors were swept and polished. The brass gleamed. The windows sparkled.
If only she were as well kept as her house.
Someone had had the good sense to offer Mrs. Armbruster refreshments, and the woman was sitting in the pasha’s chair next to the window. George’s grandfather claimed the chair was a throne used by a ruler of one of the disparate tribes in Persia. Its upholstery was crimson, and its arms and legs ended in lion’s paws. A gilded wooden crown in a pattern that no doubt meant something to someone of Persian descent stretched four feet above the back of the chair. The morning sun danced on the gold, then came to rest on Mrs. Armbruster’s bright red hair.
It was the hair Suzanne remembered more than Mrs. Armbruster’s doughy, kind face. The woman had sparkling blue eyes that seemed amused as she placed her teacup on the table beside her.
They had indeed spoken last night, but Suzanne could not remember one single thing either of them had said.
“Mrs. Armbruster,” she said. “I’m so sorry to make you wait.”
“Your Grace, it’s no bother at all. I have spent the time admiring this surprising room.”
Suzanne glanced around at the shelves and the hundreds of knickknacks.
A crimson sofa sat in front of the fireplace and a primarily crimson carpet was underfoot. Even the wall covering was crimson, patterned in France and no doubt extraordinarily expensive.
She always thought of blood when she entered this room and from the history of Persia, she thought it was an apt comparison.
“It was an interest of my husband’s grandfather,” she said.
The man had a great many interests. One of them wasn’t fodder for polite conversation.
Infidelity had been a hobby among the Whitcomb men.
“I’m very much afraid I don’t have an apron, Your Grace.”
Suzanne looked at the other woman. “I don’t understand, Mrs. Armbruster.”
“That lovely dress might be ruined.”
She still didn’t understand.
Mrs. Armbruster stood.
The woman was formidable, a presence in the room. It had nothing to do with her height, which was considerable, or her girth, or even the jutting of her bosom that made her look like the figurehead of a clipper ship. No, Mrs. Armbruster had something else, a quality that reminded Suzanne, oddly enough, of her father.
He, too, could quell anyone’s comments or rebellion with a glance.
“Shall we go?” Mrs. Armbruster asked, heading for the parlor door.
“I beg your pardon? Where?”
The older woman glanced over her shoulder at Suzanne. “To the hospital, of course. We discussed it last night. We most desperately need your patronage, Your Grace.”
She was marshaling her arguments as to why she couldn’t possibly leave Marsley House when Mrs. Armbruster came to stand in front of her.
“You promised, Your Grace.”
She’d never willingly broken a promise, even during these ghastly past years. Her mother had been her example in that.
“A woman’s word is as good as a man’s, Suzanne. Men aren’t the only ones to live by a code of honor.”
She wanted to ask her mother, then, if her father had a code of honor. But her mother had been ill and she hadn’t. There were some questions that could never be asked and some answers that would never be given.
Mrs. Armbruster placed her hand on Suzanne’s arm. That’s how they left the Persian Parlor and headed for the front of Marsley House: Mrs. Armbruster sailing through the corridors and Suzanne feeling like she was being towed after the woman.
At the door, the footman furnished Mrs. Armbruster with her shawl while another servant fetched Suzanne’s cloak.
“Where is that fascinating majordomo of yours, Your Grace? He’s a military man, isn’t he? You can always tell. They have a certain air about them. Not to mention that yours is a phenomenally handsome creature.”
She focused on what Mrs. Armbruster was saying. “You’ve met my majordomo?”
“Indeed I have. You may not realize this, my dear, but I came to see you a month ago, not realizing that you were at your country home. It was only the very best of circumstances that my husband and I were invited to your father’s dinner party. Such a fascinating man, your father.”
She didn’t know which comment to respond to first. Thankfully, Mrs. Armbruster didn’t seem to expect a response.
“It’s a beautifully sunny day, my dear. You shan’t need that,” the older woman said, eyeing Suzanne’s black wool cloak. “However, it might serve as an apron of sorts, especially when we get to the nursery.”
Her hands froze in the act of putting on her gloves. “Nursery?” Her feet felt embedded in the marble of the foyer. They wouldn’t move. For the love of all that was holy, she couldn’t visit a nursery.
Mrs. Armbruster glanced at her.
“Trust me, Your Grace. Please.”
“I can’t,” she said.
“You must.”
Suzanne shook her head. She didn’t care how insistent the other woman was, she couldn’t.
Chapter Six
Adam arrived back at Marsley House in time to see a carriage pull away from the front entrance. He gave the signal to the driver to halt for a moment as it passed. Her Grace, the Duchess of Marsley, turned a white face toward him. He had the curious sensation that she needed assistance and that he was the only person who could help her. Their eyes met. Hers widened just for a moment before she composed herself once more, facing forward.
She’d been on his mind ever since last night, but the fact that no gossip had surfaced about the duchess being ill reassured him somewhat.
> After the carriage passed he gave the signal for his driver to take him around the back of the house to the stables. The encounter, brief as it was, disturbed him. This assignment had been difficult from the beginning, but she was at the root of his sudden wish to be gone from Marsley House.
Until last night, he hadn’t been excessively impatient with the slow pace of his investigation, knowing that it could take some time to find proof of the duke’s treason. Now he wanted it done, completed, and over.
He hadn’t wanted to come back to the house, but he’d done so because duty was a word that meant something to him. He’d been a dutiful soldier in India despite the stupidity of the orders he’d been given. Now he was a dutiful servant of the War Office and the Silent Service. Duty, however, sometimes required a sacrificial commitment. He’d learned that at Manipora.
He’d been a boy when he entered the army and it had molded and shaped him. Growing up in the tenements of Glasgow, he’d been concerned with elemental things like eating and keeping warm. It was only later, after comparing himself to his fellow soldiers, that he’d realized how much he was missing.
He could read, thanks to his mother, who’d died early of a lingering cough, but not before she had instilled some knowledge in her son and daughter. It was Mary, his sister, who had insisted on him learning his numbers and practicing his reading. After enlisting in the army, he’d begun to procure books, spending his hard-earned wages on a volume that he carried around in his knapsack. He would sometimes trade with another soldier. One of the wives at the British Legation in India had given him two books. He still had them at his lodgings and they were among his most treasured possessions.
A book, to him, was like a portable school. A book, unlike a headmaster, didn’t care in what area of Glasgow he’d been raised, or whether he’d had the time or the energy to haul a bucketful of water up three flights of stairs so that he could wash. A book didn’t offer judgment about his accent or his profanity. But the words, assimilated at his own pace, taught him.
