Duke and His Duchess

by Grace Burrowes

  Percival rose and shed his jacket. “I want you to have my coat.” He draped it around Maggie’s shoulders. It fell nearly to the floor on her, which was good.

  She drew it closed at the lapels and gave it a sniff. “It smells like you, and it’s warm.”

  “Exactly the point. When was the last time you ate?”

  She glanced at the battered doll and the worn soldiers.

  “I mean real food, for God’s sake.” At the exasperation in his tone, her expression shuttered, and that… went beyond causing him despair. No child of her years should have instincts like this, should have circumstances like this while her mother sat two floors below, swathed in lace and warmed by a blazing fire.

  “Come with me, Miss Maggie. We’re off to the kitchen.”

  When he’d seen the child seated before bread, butter, jam, and hot tea, Percival forced himself to rejoin Cecily in her lair. Her eyes went wide at the sight of him without his coat, but she said nothing until the door was firmly closed behind him.

  “You’ve assured yourself the girl is well and hale, and you know she’s yours. If I say you’ll accompany me to the theater tomorrow night, Percival, then accompany me, you shall.”

  He hated this woman. Hated her with an intimate, burning passion that was not for himself but for the small child left shivering and alone hour after hour.

  He was going to rescue this child, though he must wait until Esther had removed to Morelands to implement that plan. Hatred fueled the most ironically pleasant smile he’d ever manufactured. “I’ll pick you up at eight. Try not to dress like the trollop you are.”

  Five

  “She didn’t ask how much I wanted, she asked how much I needed.” Kathleen St. Just fell silent rather than try to explain to her son why desperate schemes were rioting through her brain.

  Devlin glanced up from where he was laying out playing cards on his mother’s bedspread, this room being the only one with even a meager fire. “The lady who gave me chocolate was nice. The horses were wonderful.”

  The deck he was playing with lacked several cards, and try as he might to pair each one with a match, his game was doomed. Being a child, he hadn’t figured this out, and Kathleen wasn’t about to tell him.

  “That lady is your papa’s wife. She’s kind.” And for that kindness, Kathleen wanted to hate her, which was of no moment whatsoever. “Also very rich.”

  They spoke Gaelic, which was a sign of how tired Kathleen was. Bad enough Devlin was illegitimate, worse yet if he sported a brogue as he got older. “I received another letter from Mr. O’Dea.”

  Devlin glanced at her when she switched to English. “Mr. O’Dea lives back home.”

  Back home was a place the boy would have little memory of, or so Kathleen hoped. She’d visited only once during Devlin’s short lifetime. “He does. He asked after you.”

  Devlin made no reply, remaining focused on his cards. Billy O’Dea always asked after “the boy,” but his sentiments regarding Devlin were one reason why Kathleen hadn’t made any more trips back to Ireland. With the tolerant pragmatism of a man who knew exactly how Kathleen earned her livelihood, Billy—like Kathleen’s own family—believed Devlin’s best chance for a good start in life lay in throwing the boy on his father’s charity, and Billy was not wrong.

  He was also not going to offer marriage unless or until Kathleen heeded his advice. On that tired thought, wind rattled the glass and fluttered the curtains, bringing an icy draft into the room.

  And winter was only getting started. Kathleen thought of the vile things Gregory Pelham had whispered in her ear as she earned her coin with him like a doxy in his mews, and wanted to retch.

  “One day soon, we’re going back to visit your papa’s wife again.”

  Devlin turned up a pair of queens and smiled. “Will she give me more chocolate?”

  “Yes. She’ll give you more chocolate. As much chocolate as you can drink.”

  Without making a sound, Kathleen started to cry.

  ***

  “Your papa has asked us to return to Morelands. You’ll like that, won’t you?” Esther adopted the cheery tones of a parent bent on deceiving small children, though from the look Bart and Gayle exchanged, she’d failed miserably.

  Gayle kicked at the dead leaves on the frozen ground. Bart dropped Esther’s hand and skipped ahead a few steps. “I like the park. If we go home, we can’t play in the park. Papa visits with us more here too. I like when Papa visits.”

  Gayle echoed the complaint as they wandered along the Serpentine, cold winter sunlight bouncing off the water in the middle of the lake. Near the shore, ice had once again formed. Esther resisted the urge to find a rock and pitch it hard at the ice, lest the boys complain about missing the Serpentine too.

  “Papa will be home at Christmas,” Esther said, “and that’s just a few weeks away.” Though Percival hadn’t promised to return to Morelands at Christmas.

  Bart’s face lit up with glee as he pointed at a rider coming down the path on a chestnut stallion. “There’s Papa! Maybe he’ll let me ride home with him!”

  Predictably, Gayle planted his mittened fists on his little hips. “That’s not fair! You got to ride with Papa last time, and it’s my turn.”

  Percival Windham was so handsome, he nearly took Esther’s breath away. Mounted, he had a sort of rugged elegance that the painted town dandies in their clocked stockings and high heels would never achieve. And yet, that wasn’t why she loved him. She loved him because when he spotted them, he swung off his horse and held out his hands to the boys.

  “My first and second lieutenants, scouting the wilds of Hyde Park in search of the general’s beautiful, lost daughter. I see you’ve found the poor, wandering damsel.”

  “That’s not a damsel,” Gayle said, grabbing his father’s hand. “That’s Mama.”

  “Why so it is.” Percival made her an elaborate bow, likely for the sake of his sons. Esther bobbed a curtsy for the same reason, when she wanted to tear a strip off her handsome, charming, randy husband for no reason in particular.

  “Take me up, Papa!” Bart started. “I want to ride on Comet.”

  “It’s my turn,” Gayle bellowed over his brother’s pleading.

  Percival picked Gayle up and sat him on Comet’s empty saddle, then swung Bart up behind his brother. “Hush, the both of you. If you spook my horse, you’re likely to land in something objectionable, and your mama will not be pleased. Madam?” He winged his arm at her, and Esther felt a lump lodge in her throat.

  “My thanks.” She tucked her hand over his arm, while with his free hand, Percival led the horse—now sporting a pair of pirate princes intent on plundering London from the back of their equine ship.

  “Are you prepared to leave for Morelands in the morning, Wife?”

  No. “Almost. There are a few things that can’t be packed up until shortly before we leave, and things the children will want in the coach.”

  “A storybook or two?”

  “Several storybooks, their favorite blankets, their soldiers.”

  They strolled along, a young family to all appearances indulging the children’s high spirits on a chipper day.

  Esther spoke at the same time as her husband, their unison perfect.

  “I’ll miss you.”

  From Esther’s perspective, they were both speaking the truth, but the missing would be very different for each of them. She would miss her husband with a bodily ache and a heavy heart, and more than a dollop of resentfulness. He would miss her with a passing wistfulness, particularly on the nights when his mistress could not accommodate him.

  The thought sent a spike of nausea through Esther’s belly.

  “Madam, are you well?”

  She’d put her hand over her middle. Behind them, Comet clip-clopped along, and the boys plotted terror on the high seas of Mayfair


  “I do not want to return to Morelands, Percival. There is no reason for it.”

  He remained silent until they approached the gate that would see them onto Park Lane. Percival paused, the horse coming to a halt behind them.

  “Will you go because I ask it of you, Esther? I will join you at Christmas if I have to walk every step of the journey back to you in my bare feet.”

  Now was the time to tell him, no, she would not go. She would not so easily let him drift into the liaisons and affairs that eventually attended every titled marriage, save the eccentric few. Now was when she should join battle, except Percival’s eyes held such a grave request, she could not form the words.

  She nodded, and they turned out of the park and onto the busy streets of Mayfair.

  ***

  “You’re not off to the levee this morning, Husband?”

  Esther looked tired to Percival, making him wonder if she’d waited up for him. When he’d dragged himself home after an execrable evening at the theater, Esther had been abed, and he hadn’t been able to bring himself to wake her. His hesitance hadn’t stemmed from consideration for a woman who’d be trapped in a freezing coach with her children all day but rather from guilt.

  All evening long he’d fielded curious glances and raised eyebrows from men who would no doubt tell their wives that Lord Percy Windham had been in the company of an old flame. And those wives would talk to each other, and eventually…

  “I’m off to a meeting,” Percival said. “His Majesty has some notion Wales ought to be kept informed of the committee’s doings, though Wales is far more interested in chasing skirts than requisitioning uniforms.”

  “Then I’ll bid you farewell. I’ve final packing to see to.”

  She did not. Percival knew his wife well enough to know that her own effects had likely been packed before she’d found her bed the previous night. Esther pushed her chair back, and Percival covered her hand with his own. “I’ve said my good-byes to the boys, but…”

  She gazed at him, her expression so solemn that guilt and frustration coalesced into shame. The damned beefsteak he’d been choking down threatened to rebel, and a life of such moments—ashamed, awkward, silent—rolled past in Percival’s mind.

  “Esther, I love you. I wouldn’t be asking you to leave if I did not love you.”

  If she asked him why her departure was necessary, he would have no answer for her: Because a vicious woman was going to use a small child to wreak vengeance on an entire family; because a randy young officer had made foolish choices.

  Because he could not bear to see Esther hurt.

  He kissed her cheek. “Will you finish my steak for me? One doesn’t want to be late, even if Wales will be more drunk than sober at such an early hour.”

  Something shifted in Esther’s green-eyed gaze, something cooled and reassessed. “I don’t care for beef at breakfast, Percival. Perhaps you’ll serve yourself smaller portions in future rather than expect me to finish your meal.”

  Her tone was so perfectly bland, Percival had to wonder if she hadn’t already heard with whom he’d been seen the previous evening. “I will try to recall your preferences when next we’re dining at the same table.”

  He rose, held her chair for her, and hated what his life was about to become. Hated it so much in fact, that when he’d managed to take his leave of his lady wife without shouting, breaking things, and rampaging through the house, he did not go to his meeting. Percival instead took himself to that address he most loathed in all of London.

  “Good morning, your lordship.” The same footman who’d listened at Cecily’s keyhole was now minding her front door. “Madam has not yet come down, though if you’ll follow me to the parlor, the kitchen will send up a tray.”

  The words were right and the tone was deferential and brisk, but the fellow’s gaze was shifty, more shifty than it had been even when he’d been eavesdropping. Percival handed him his cloak, and noticed another gentleman’s coat hanging from a hook in the foyer. The garment was well made, a soft, dark wool with crested buttons that suggested both wealth and good taste.

  Also a complete lack of common sense on some poor fellow’s part. Percival did not stare at the coat, lest the footman catch him at it, but the presence of that coat spoke volumes.

  Percival took himself down the hallway toward the foyer, addressing the footman over his shoulder. “A tray would be appreciated, with chocolate and none of that damned tea.”

  Chocolate would take longer to prepare, and for what Percival intended, every moment counted.

  “Very good, my lord.”

  The footman scampered toward the back stairs, while Percival kept right on going past the parlor. The plan he’d formed was daring and precipitous, but an eternity of nights toadying to Cecily O’Donnell was unthinkable. And as for Esther…

  He pushed thoughts of his wife aside, knowing that dear lady was already on her way to the countryside. If the gods smiled upon a well-intended husband, then Esther need never know of what was about to transpire.

  Cecily’s bedroom door was closed, thank God, probably the better to hog the heat from the only fire outside the kitchen. When he gained the nursery, Percival paused.

  What he was about to do was in some way selfish, and in some way proper—it was also right.

  “Maggie.”

  His daughter glanced up from the same pile of damaged toys he’d found her with previously.

  “Papa.” She scrambled to her feet but then checked herself, making a painful contrast to the way Percival’s sons had greeted him in the park—to the way they always greeted him.

  “Collect up your things, my dear. I’m taking you away from this house.”

  “We’re going on an outing?”

  “Something like that. Bring your doll and your soldiers and anything else that matters to you.”

  She disappeared into a cupboard and emerged with Percival’s coat. “Burton said we could sell it for coal, but I didn’t want to. I like how it smells, and the buttons have a unicorn on them.”

  Maggie held still while Percival fastened the frogs of a wool cloak under her chin, and she said nothing when he stuffed her doll and soldiers into his pockets. As they stole back down through the house—making only one brief stop in the parlor—Percival wondered if there was a greater comment on Maggie’s situation than that all she really knew of her father was the scent of his cologne.

  Six

  Esther had wanted to leave for Morelands an hour ago, but the children were being recalcitrant, and the nursery maids—one of whom was enamored of the porter—were abetting them.

  And while Esther waited for this favorite pair of boots to be found and an indispensable storybook to be tucked into the coach, she thought of her husband and of the solemn, dark-haired boy who bore her husband’s eyebrows.

  A man who was going to keep a mistress for all of London to see could afford to quietly support his son at some decent school in the Midlands. Winter was barely under way, and the boy’s mother had already been reduced to begging. This was perhaps the inevitable fate of a woman plying the harlot’s trade, except…

  Except if Esther had been that boy’s mother, she’d do much worse than beg if it would see him fed. Thinking not as a wife, but as a mother, Esther could not leave Town without making at least a short call on Kathleen St. Just, whose direction she’d obtained at their last encounter. Knowing that the traveling coach would still take at least an hour to pack, Esther called for the town coach and dressed in her plainest cloak and boots.

  Kathleen St. Just opened the door to a perfectly nondescript little house on a perfectly nondescript street. “My lady, I am surprised to see you.”

  Surprised was a euphemism, likely covering shock and humiliation, as well a quantity of resentment, though Esther did not quibble over it. The freezing house, the stink of tallow rather
than beeswax in the foyer, and the fact that Mrs. St. Just had opened her own door announced the situation plainly enough.

  Esther swept past her hostess rather than linger on the stoop. “I will not take up much of your time, Mrs. St. Just. Is your son on the premises?”

  Fear, or something close to it, flitted through Mrs. St. Just’s eyes. “He is.”

  “Shall we repair to a parlor, then? What I have to say affects the boy.”

  It would affect Esther’s marriage too, though she brushed that thought aside and followed Mrs. St. Just to a parlor that surely had never been used for company. Had it been warmer, the room would have been cozy. An entire flower garden was embroidered and framed on one wall, species by species, in exquisite needlework. A teacup and saucer sat on a low table near a workbasket, the saucer chipped but still serviceable.

  “My lady, you will forgive the clutter, but this is the smallest parlor and the easiest to heat.”

  “You need not build up the fire for me,” Esther said, and that was true, because she hadn’t surrendered her cloak at the door, and Mrs. St. Just—who was wearing two shawls herself—hadn’t offered to take it. “I will be blunt, Mrs. St. Just. My husband has banished me back to the countryside, the better to disport as a young man is wont to when in the capital. I have not informed him that you’re raising his son, but I think some provision should be made for the boy sooner rather than later.”

  “You’re leaving London?”

  This did seem to occasion surprise. “My husband has asked it of me, so yes.”

  A shaft of anger accompanied those words, and yet, Percival had asked it of her, he hadn’t ordered her to go.

  Mrs. St. Just squared her shoulders, which let Esther realize she and this woman were the same height—and what metaphor did that speak to? “Then you can take Devlin with you.”