Dair Devil

by Lucinda Brant

  “Julian, is it a hearing-trumpet you need?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “Then attend me! Yes, he rowed her over there of his own free will. That is what I said, and that is what he did. That is not all. They went swimming in the bathing pool.”

  “Swimming? Alisdair went swimming?” Roxton would not have believed it but it was his mother telling him. “Together? They went swimming together in the bathing pool? He told you this?”

  “He told me they went swimming,” Antonia replied with a sly little smile. “It does not take a sharp mind to deduce it was together.”

  “Good God! What will Shrewsbury think if he discovers his granddaughter—”

  “Julian, what will a proud man like Shrewsbury care other than his granddaughter is to marry the heir to an earldom! Now you must go and send that request to Cornwallis. I am expecting Alisdair to return at any moment from seeking permission of Shrewsbury to marry Rory.”

  “Then his intentions are truly serious.”

  “Yes. That is what I am telling you. But I do not think they need to wait the three Sundays necessary for banns to be read. That is most inconvenient—

  “—but most proper. And Shrewsbury, he might want—”

  “It is not what Shrewsbury wants that matters in the least. And as you have the power and the wealth to get the Archbishop of Canterbury to do your will, and give you a Special License, why must the young couple wait?”

  “Maman, what is three Sundays—”

  “Julian, I am so proud of you, and Monseigneur he could not have asked for a better son to succeed him as Duke, but sometimes me I wonder at your capacity to seize the moment. The couple they are in love, they spent the afternoon alone on Swan Island and went swimming together. Must I spell out the rest for you?” When her son’s eyebrows drew in tightly and he blushed, she swiftly kissed his cheek and said with a little laugh, “Methinks your wish for a houseful of babies it will come true, and by Christmastime!”

  ANTONIA WAITED UP for her cousin to return from the Gatehouse Lodge. When he did not come, and because she could not sleep and it was a warm night, she went for a moonlit walk down to her pavilion by the shores of the lake. A footman with a flambeau lit the way for her. Michelle followed, a woolen wrap over her arm, refusing to let the Duchess go alone. What if Mme la Duchesse needed something? What if she twisted her ankle on the stone stairs? M’sieur le Duc d’Kinross would never forgive her for not doing her duty by his duchess and his enfant. I am sorry, Mme la Duchesse, but even if you will not say it, I will, because, by my calculation, it is fourteen weeks not ten since you had your last menses, and that was just a fortnight before M’sieur le Duc he first made love to—Antonia stopped her there. She had heard enough and forbid her lady’s maid to utter another syllable. Michelle was easily silenced. By voicing aloud such intimate particulars about her mistress she had shocked herself mute.

  Antonia had the footman and Michelle wait at the base of the stairs and ascended the steps into the pavilion alone. There was enough moonlight to see the way. On the top step, a frisson of memory made her stop. It was the pleasing aroma of a lit cheroot, and it so reminded her of Jonathon that she experienced a stab of loss so acute it was as if she had lost him as she had her first husband. But she quickly shook the melancholy off. Her second husband, her second duke, was very much alive, healthy and as strong as an ox. He would return to her within a handful of months, of that she was certain.

  Lost in thought, she hesitated, long enough for a familiar male voice, deep in the shadows, to offer to stub the cheroot. She shook her head.

  “No. This scent, thankfully, it still pleases me. It reminds me of my husband…”

  When Dair did not reply, she went towards the sudden red glow as the tip of the cheroot came alive, and found her cousin in his shirtsleeves, a shoulder leaning against a marble column. His face was turned away from her, she assumed so that he could exhale smoke. But when he did not face her but continued to gaze out on the silvery light across the still surface of the lake, she drew closer and said quietly,

  “You did not come and see me, Alisdair…”

  Finally, slowly, he turned. As he did so, the moonlight sliced his face, illuminating his dark eyes. They were bright and glassy, the light striking them in such a way that she saw they were brimful of tears. He looked away, swallowing hard, and puffed on his cheroot. Shocked at the change in him since dinner, Antonia kept her composure and waited for him to speak, wondering what had gone wrong with his visit to the Gatehouse Lodge.

  “You told me once that I hide behind a façade; that I have inhabited the role of blustering care-for-nobody for so many years now, that I cannot tell the difference between the real and the imagined me. But you are wrong, Cousin,” he said, looking down at her again. “It is because I know exactly who I am, where I have come from and what I must become, that I chose to hide myself away. It was the only means I knew how to bear my father’s—your uncle’s—bitter disappointment I was not the bookish heir he wanted. It was how I endured my parents’ hate-filled marriage. This façade—this mask—you derided helped me survive many bloody years in the army, and it got me through more than one perilous scrape as an agent of the Crown. But never did I lose sight of who I was or what I wanted from life…” He quickly turned away and put his face in his shirt sleeve to wipe dry his eyes, then turned back to Antonia with a crooked smile. “You’ll be surprised to learn that what I have always wanted from life is what you had with M’sieur le Duc, and what Roxton has with Deb, and what I never thought I would ever have—a happy marriage, wed to the love of one’s life, and with children of my own to nurture. Is that too much to ask?”

  “No. No, it is not.”

  “Do you remember telling me on the stair at Hanover Square that being in love can be terrifying?” When she nodded he continued. “You said that being in love can be more terrifying than anything else, if doubt exists that love is not reciprocated, or if there is an impediment to a happy outcome… Do you remember saying that, Cousin?”

  “Yes, mon chou. Of course. I stand by what I said.”

  Dair nodded and took a great breath. He glanced down at the smoldering cheroot between his fingers then at Antonia’s face, partly concealed in shadow, and fixed on her green eyes. Antonia did not look away. When he finally spoke, he was barely audible, but Antonia heard his torment as if he had shouted it from the rooftop.

  “Cousin… I am—I am terrified.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  D AIR WAS SEATED on a woolen shawl on the top step of the entrance to the pavilion, with a second, or was it his third, cheroot between his fingers, and pouring forth his heart to Antonia, before he realized where he was or what he was doing. His anguish was all-consuming and he saw no clear way out of his predicament. Antonia did not interrupt his revelatory self-castigation, and her servants were acute enough that one look and a sign from their mistress and they went off and returned with hot tea for her and a bottle of something much stronger for Major Lord Fitzstuart.

  His hands were shaking and his throat dry. Spying a tumbler of spirits on the step below the toe of his shoe, he snatched it up and drank it down, the fiery liquid barely registering on his tongue. He set aside the crystal tumbler, and out of the shadows stepped a footman who refilled it before disappearing back into the night.

  Antonia listened without comment, criticism or question until Dair drew breath and reached again for the tumbler. It was only when he declared he had no other option but to kidnap Rory and make for Gretna, that she decided it was time to intervene.

  She could see his distress was such that he was incapable of thinking rationally. His only thought was to get Rory away from her grandfather long enough to vindicate himself. He needed time to explain to her he was no libidinous monster, no seducer; that his intentions were honorable and sincere.

  To anyone other than Antonia, his desperation to allay Rory’s fears about his intentions would have been mystifying. After all, he had pro
posed and she had accepted, and there was the pale lavender sapphire ring as tangible proof he meant to marry her. Both were of legal age, and could marry, whatever Shrewsbury’s objections to the match. But Antonia knew the couple had spent the day on Swan Island. It was an island for lovers, a mystical yet sensual place where she and Monseigneur had been free to enjoy each other in every way without interruption. Now, for her, the island was a sad place, full of happy bygone memories and another life. To row over there now her beloved was no longer with her would surely unravel her peace of mind. But to a young couple deeply in love, the secluded island with its fanciful temple grotto, bathing pool and small tapestry-lined temple, was a magical place to make love and be loved.

  Of course Dair and Rory had made love on Swan Island, Antonia was convinced of that. This was why her cousin was distraught beyond reason. Justifiably so. If Shrewsbury told Rory about the ridiculous wager, doubt would surely be cast in Rory’s mind as to Dair’s true intentions, and more importantly, as to his true character. What sort of man was capable of accepting such a loathsome wager?

  An unthinking, arrogant and foolish boy, was Antonia’s firm belief. The despicable wager was in no way a reflection of the man who sat next to her with head bent. The wager was not worth the paper it was inked on. But as easy as it was for her to dismiss such a wager, it would be difficult for Rory to do so. Particularly when she had given Dair her virginity before marriage, which surely must be pressing on her conscience. It would be natural for her to then ask herself what sort of man seduces his bride before the wedding night, if he truly intended to marry her? With her grandfather adding gravitas to the wager, and his opposition to a match with the notorious handsome rogue Major Lord Fitzstuart, Rory’s carefully-constructed-world view of the loving man she thought she was marrying would inevitably start to crumble.

  Antonia could hear the old man now, filling Rory’s little ear with all sorts of distressing tid-bits about the man she loved, to cast doubt, to engender distrust and misery, and all to make certain Rory remained unmarried and by Shrewsbury’s side for the rest of his days. Well, Antonia was having none of it! Her cousin and her goddaughter were in love and deserved their happily ever after. She would make it happen, even though it would mean invoking a secret Monseigneur had entrusted to her, only to be used in the direst of circumstances. She knew he would understand and forgive her. When she visited the mausoleum on the morrow, she would explain everything to him, and tell him the all-important and startling news she was to have a baby in the new year. But that visit would be after she called on England’s Spymaster General.

  Dair was convinced the only solution to his predicament called for action: Kidnapping Rory out from under Shrewsbury’s nose. So when Antonia told him kidnapping was unnecessary and not to worry, all would be set to rights by tomorrow afternoon, his immediate response was incredulity, and to tell her insolently that stamping her pretty foot at Shrewsbury would be an interference he could do without. She ignored his rude dismissal. After all, she was not going to make plain her thoughts or her methods, and he was under considerable emotional duress. Instead she said cryptically, as she got to her silk-slippered feet and shook out the folds of her satin embroidered banyan,

  “All men have secrets, Alisdair. Even spymasters. And this spymaster, he has more to hide than most. But that is all I will ever tell you. Now you must go to bed and try to sleep. Tomorrow after breakfast I intend to call on Shrewsbury unannounced. You will come too, but wait in the carriage until called.” She smiled up at him as he rose slowly to his feet after stubbing the cheroot on the heel of his shoe. “Tell your man to pack up your belongings and take them over to the big house first thing in the morning. That is where you must stay until the wedding—

  “Wedding? You want me at the big house?”

  “Yes. Under no circumstances must the bride and groom stay under the same roof until they are married, and as Rory will be here with me—”

  “Rory is coming here? To-to stay with you?”

  “Yes. Until you are both married in the chapel over at the big house. Tonight I will write and invite your mother and your sister—”

  “Write to Mary? And to my mother?”

  Antonia let out a sigh. “What is it about the hearing of young men these days? Do you all need hearing-trumpets? No! Do not answer that, and do not interrupt me again. Just listen—”

  Dair grinned and made her a little bow, suitably chastened.

  “Yes, Mme la Duchesse—Forgive me—I am more than a little dull—Ah! And I have interrupted you again.”

  “Yes, you have, but it is of no matter,” she responded gently, seeing the cloud lift from his brow, and liking to see him finally smile. “To tell you again: Your wedding it will take place in the Roxton chapel. Until that is arranged—and believe me, arrangements are already underway—you will stay in the big house, as will your mother and your sister. Charlotte she will expect nothing less of her son. And I am sorry, Alisdair, but me I cannot abide Charlotte to stay with me. Even more so with Rory staying here.” She dimpled. “It is for the best if your bride she spends as little time as possible in the company of her future mother-in-law, yes? It is to my son and his wife you must give your thanks for-for—

  “—everything,” he interrupted softly, dark eyes bright and wet. “But mostly to you…” He grabbed her hand and kissed it, before looking into her eyes and saying with a catch to his voice, “If you are able to bring about this miracle, I will be forever in your debt. I can never thank you enough—”

  “Attend me, Alisdair!” Antonia interrupted brusquely, because her green eyes were also filling with tears. “Naturellement I would do anything for you. Does not the same blood run in our veins? Are we not first cousins, descendants of the great Stuart king Charles the Second? Do we not have a duty to give our royal ancestor the heirs he did not have himself, so that he may live on through us?” She laughed then and touched his flushed cheek. “How full of self-importance I am! But your grandfather, whom you never met, but whom I lived with in the last years of his life, he was proud to be the son of Charles the Second, of having royal blood in his veins. His one regret was that he was not made a duke as his royal father had made his other natural sons. But that was the fault of his mother, and a story for another day.

  “Now I have letters to write, and you must go to bed,” she added with forced cheerfulness. “Tomorrow morning after breakfast, you and I we will call at the Gatehouse Lodge and everything it will arrange itself.”

  They retired for the night, neither saying what was on both their minds: The hope Shrewsbury had allowed Rory an uneventful night, and they would arrive at the Gatehouse Lodge before the Spymaster had the chance to shatter his granddaughter’s hopes and dreams. As it turned out they were almost too late.

  ANTONIA ENTERED the Gatehouse Lodge, announced by the butler, into a drawing room where the tension crackled louder than the fire in the grate. Why there was a fire on such a warm day, she could only wonder at, as she stripped off her silk half-gloves and shrugged bare shoulders out of a pretty India shawl. Both articles were mechanically handed into thin air, and swiftly taken by her lady-in-waiting, who had accompanied the Duchess with her own task to perform. At the first opportunity, Michelle was to slip away and seek out Rory’s maid, to have Miss Talbot’s personal belongings packed up and ready to be transported up the hill to the dower house.

  Antonia swept across the threshold in a rustle of silk petticoats, noble host come to see the occupants of her Gatehouse Lodge. She was dressed more appropriately for an evening soiree at her son’s palatial mansion, than for a morning visit on a country lodge. Her robe à la française was of luxurious India glazed cotton, with matching shoes affixed with diamond buckles, and the décolletage was cut so low across her ample breasts that every man in the room affixed his admiring gaze on her legendary bosom.

  There were three men, Lord Shrewsbury, Lord Grasby, and Mr. William Watkins. It was at this tall lanky gentleman Antonia pau
sed to study, her arched brows lifting slightly at sight of his bent nose, and both eyes ringed in fading bruises. The only female present was the pretty auburn-haired Lady Grasby, and it was she who was cut off mid-sentence upon the butler’s announcement Her Grace the Duchess of Kinross had come to call.

  Antonia was not certain but it seemed that it was Lord Grasby and his grandfather who were most tense. She wondered if it had anything to do with Rory, and later had this confirmed. But for now, whatever the disagreement between the two men, it was put aside in her presence.

  Everyone in the room was instantly on their feet, to bow or curtsy, and then politely remained silent waiting for the Duchess to speak. After an exchange of pleasantries and a few inane comments about the weather, Antonia asked lightly, looking about the cozy room for added effect,

  “I do not see my goddaughter. I trust Rory she is well?”

  “Very well, your Grace,” Shrewsbury replied quickly. “Would you care for a dish of coffee? We have just had a pot and it would be no trouble to have another fetched…”

  Antonia closed her eyes at the thought and waved a hand in refusal.

  “Apparently my little sister has taken to sleeping late in the country,” Lord Grasby offered, the tone of his voice suggesting he did not believe it for a moment. Antonia saw his gaze dart to his grandfather as he added, “I thought she would be up and awaiting our arrival, particularly when my letter hinted we have an exciting announcement we wished to share with her—”

  “Lady Grasby has made us all the happiest of men,” Lord Shrewsbury announced proudly with a wide smile. “I am to be a great-grandfather in the new year, Grasby a father, and Mr. Watkins a proud uncle.”

  Lady Grasby gave a light laugh behind her fluttering fan and needlessly confided in Antonia.

  “I thought it was the intolerably hot weather making me peevish. But then I realized I have not been myself for some months now. And a visit by the physician confirmed what I had hoped for, but did not dare to dream could be the real reason for my indifferent health.” She put a hand to her shoulder, and her husband, who was standing behind her chair, took it in a firm clasp. She looked up at him before returning her gaze to Antonia with a smile that resembled the cat who had found the cream. “Even though it must be many years since your last pregnancy, no doubt your Grace can recall that feeling of utter elation that comes with knowing one is fulfilling the hopes and dreams of an entire family.”