by Karen Ranney
Reese thought his mission was going to be a failure until the York women arrived. So far he’d not discovered anything he could take back to the War Office, but things could change. Martha York might help Jordan get his torpedo ship to work.
In the meantime, the younger sister might turn out to be a momentary—and pleasant—distraction.
Before retiring for the night, she and Josephine went to check on Gran who was playing cards with Amy and looking hale and hearty. They took turns kissing their grandmother on the cheek before saying good-night.
As Amy was closing the door behind her, she whispered to Martha, “Could I talk to you, Miss Martha?” She glanced behind her, then added, “It’s something I can’t mention to your grandmother.”
“Of course, Amy.”
“I’ll come to see you as soon as I get her settled for the night.”
She nodded, concerned and curious, then caught up with Josephine before her sister could enter her room.
“You will be going to bed right away, won’t you?” Martha asked. “You don’t have plans to do anything else?”
“Of course. I don’t understand what you think I’d do.”
Josephine was the picture of innocence, but she’d witnessed her sister lying straight-faced before and wasn’t fooled.
“So you’ve given up the notion of causing a scandal?”
“Oh, Martha, don’t be foolish. I was only jesting. I have no intention of doing anything shocking.”
Josephine’s laughter wasn’t the least bit reassuring. Neither was her sister’s quick smile as she shut the door.
Was she a terrible person for believing her sister capable of such behavior? Possibly, but she couldn’t trust Josephine. Last night the duke had been with his valet. Tonight she suspected Josephine was going to do something foolish.
She also knew she was the only person who could stop her sister.
For a moment she toyed with the idea of going to Gran and telling her about Josephine’s plans. If she did, her sister would probably lie and pretend innocence. Besides, she might be wrong. Not about Josephine, but about Gran. Her grandmother might truly be ill and the last thing she wanted to do was make her condition worse and delay her recuperation.
No, she was going to have to handle this herself, even if she had to stand outside Josephine’s room and stop her physically from doing something shocking.
Chapter 15
Jordan had already subjected himself to Henry’s punishing session of exercise. The man had stretched his damaged leg until he wanted to scream. He hadn’t, by sheer willpower and something else—his damnable pride.
It wouldn’t do for his guests to hear shouts of agony emerging from his suite.
He’d overdone it today. First, he’d sat for too long on the stool in the boathouse. The position had caused the muscles in his leg to bunch. Second, he’d refused to take the elixir the night before, which meant that the pain had only grown in the intervening hours.
It wasn’t coming in waves as it normally did. No, this time the pain was centered in his hip, arcs of cold traveling down the outside of his leg and remaining there as if he’d packed snow against his limb.
He’d excused himself from the Crystal Parlor because he was unable to mask his discomfort any longer. Slowly, he made his way to his library, closing the door behind him.
This room had never been a refuge for him. Ever since he was a child he’d chosen the boathouse as his sanctuary. Both his father and brother had left the imprint of their personalities here to the point that the staff felt an almost superstitious kind of hallowed reverence for the library.
No one would bother him here. Not one servant, from Frederick to Mrs. Browning, would dare to knock on the door.
He sat on the enormous desk chair behind the equally massive desk, leaning his head back and staring up at the fresco his brother had painted there.
A young and attractive satyr was summoning a bevy of male and female angels to him, stretching out one hand as if commanding by a single gesture. From the rapturous expressions on the faces of the angels, he needed even less persuasion than that.
As he did every time he saw the fresco, Jordan couldn’t help but wonder if Simon had modeled the satyr on someone of his acquaintance. Had the man been as cleverly wicked as his brother had portrayed him?
The satyr reminded him vaguely of Reese, especially in the role he’d assumed for this visit, the ears and eyes of the War Office, but willing to be distracted by a beautiful woman.
Did his friend actually think he was that naive? Reese hadn’t inquired about his well-being for months. Yet Matthew dies, he begins work again, and suddenly Reese appears at Sedgebrook? The connection was obvious even to a blind man.
He wondered if Reese would pursue Josephine. If so, he wished Reese well. He’d seen her type before, women who were basically self-centered, determined to live their lives according to their own wishes and to hell with anyone else.
Those type of women cared for others only as long as it benefited them. As companions they were amusing. As lovers they were inventive, but as friends or wives, they were disastrous.
Standing, he made his way to the bellpull and jerked on it. When the maid arrived, he gave her an order to prepare a few hot bricks for him. She only nodded, familiar with the process. Mrs. Browning would ensure the bricks were heated and wrapped in flannel. He’d called for them so often lately that he wouldn’t be surprised if the housekeeper had orders to keep a few on the stove at all times.
He’d put them against his leg. The heat wouldn’t affect the ache in his bones, but at least his muscles wouldn’t tighten up and make the pain worse.
He slowly began to traverse the library on a well-worn path, one he’d made on other nights like this.
Today he should have stood every few minutes, explaining to Martha that if he didn’t, his damnable leg would cramp. He’d wanted to appear normal to her, perhaps even stoic. He hadn’t wanted to be weak, a half man whose injury made him do odd things.
The cold was getting worse, making it feel as if his knitting bones were freezing. He was afraid that the night ahead of him would be more than miserable. He was in for hours of agony.
He walked as far as the circular iron staircase, back to the door, up to his desk, retracing his steps. Movement didn’t seem to ease the deepening ache. The knife sensation was back, making each step like striding on a sword point.
He wanted to whimper. He wanted to cry out, curse the world or himself. He’d damn himself with his words, as he had a hundred or even a thousand times over the past year.
Once the bricks came, brought to him by Mrs. Browning, he sat at his desk, placing one against his hip and the next slightly lower.
“Is there anything else I can bring you, Your Grace?” she asked, her round face arranged in compassionate lines.
“Thank you, no, Mrs. Browning,” he said, forcing the words from his lips. There, he didn’t sound whiny, did he? No, he sounded like himself, in command of the situation. Stalwart. Dependable. A man who hid his weaker nature from those who depended on him.
He wanted her out of the library before the pain seeped through to his face.
“Shall I bring you some tea, Your Grace? Or some brandy?”
Please go. Just go.
Instead of saying the words, he pasted a smile on his face. He couldn’t help but wonder how it looked. Did it appear as false as it felt? Was it a frightening expression?
“Thank you, Mrs. Browning,” he said. “I require nothing further.”
Nothing but your absence. Be quick about it. Please, for the love of God, will you leave?
Blessedly, she left, but not before glancing at him one last time. He kept his smile tethered to his face with difficulty until the door closed.
He leaned his head back against his desk chair and allowed a moan to escape from his clenched lips.
Just a few minutes, that’s all. He had to wait until the heat from the bricks eased his muscles a
nd gave a little warmth to his bones. He could endure this. All he had to do was wait.
He thought about the York Torpedo Ship and its bearer. Martha hadn’t wanted to bring it to him. She hadn’t been impressed by his consequence. Nor had she been pleased with his reception of her gift.
She was right; he hadn’t behaved in an honorable fashion. But he’d tried to make up for his initial reaction to her presence by allowing her into his sanctuary.
She’d been a surprise, a companionable woman who didn’t flirt with him, unless her forthright comments could be considered a type of flirtation. She didn’t flatter, but she did convey her respect in an odd fashion. He felt a glow of satisfaction when she said something complimentary. It was all too evident she didn’t utter falsehoods. When she gave him praise it was so simply done he knew she actually felt what she was saying.
She didn’t seem to give a flying farthing that he was a duke. Nor did Sedgebrook seem to impress her. He recalled her expression when he’d come to the Rococo Parlor. She’d been fascinated but in a repulsed, rather than admiring, way.
What did summon her admiration? Other than her father, of course. What made her eyes light up in amazement?
How curious that he wanted to know.
The thought occurred to him like a whisper, cutting through his thoughts of Martha. You have the elixir.
He pushed the thought away, but it came back, throbbing along with his leg. Dr. Reynolds had concocted a potion of sorts—at least that’s what he’d called it in the early days. The mixture was a combination of a few herbs and some opiates, but it effectively took away his pain. It also stripped him of his consciousness, not to mention his memories. He was left feeling as if he’d died for those few hours of being under the influence of the elixir.
He took it only when nothing else worked.
Right now, the exercise and heat weren’t working. He didn’t have many solutions. Alcohol didn’t ease the pain. All it did was leave him with a raging headache. The elixir worked, but it stripped him of any control over his life.
For now he would simply endure.
He knew, from previous experience, that he and agony would be doing battle until dawn.
The minute Josephine closed the door to her room, she began to undress. Tonight she wouldn’t ask for Amy’s help.
Martha was so puritanical. She didn’t understand that this was a perfect circumstance, one screaming at her to take advantage of it. Martha would have been satisfied to spend the rest of her life working with their father, fiddling with things that didn’t interest most men.
She never even tried to tame that atrocious hair of hers. Nor did she dress fashionably. She was an heiress, too, yet she didn’t seem to spend a cent of her money on herself.
Unlike Martha, she was not going to remain at Griffin House as if she was a novitiate at a convent. It was up to her to forge her own destiny, fix her future in the direction she wanted.
Her own dear Maman had always encouraged her to seize a likely opportunity.
“Women have to make their own way in life, my dear Josephine,” she’d said. “We can’t simply sit in the parlor and wait for a man to call on us. No, we have to give him the idea, first. We have to pursue him with single-minded determination, all the while allowing him to believe it was his idea.”
She had no doubt, whatsoever, that Maman would understand what she was about to do.
Josephine stared at herself in the mirror, pleased with her appearance. Her ivory complexion was enhanced with a delicate rose flush. Her eyes glowed with good health and her hair looked shiny and soft.
She was beautiful enough to be a duchess. Sedgebrook would be the perfect backdrop for her. She could entertain in style here. People would come from miles around. People would call her Your Grace. She might even add on to the Crystal Parlor with a few of her own pieces. She would most definitely change the Conservatory, perhaps add a few rooms to the house so anyone coming to Sedgebrook would marvel at the magnificent changes she’d made.
As to the lawn, she’d make some alterations there, too. Perhaps add in a few more topiary bushes and soften the approach somewhat so Sedgebrook wasn’t so imposing from the front. With those twin staircases, it looked almost like a dragon’s mouth stretched wide, ready to ensnare an unwary carriage. Or perhaps she might even have an architect redesign the facade.
The history of the Hamiltons would become hers. She would be immortalized in the Upper Hall where all of the portraits of the previous duchesses hung. She knew exactly where she wanted her painting to be placed: right beside the double doors so it couldn’t be missed when someone either entered the room or left it.
Instead of waiting for Sedgebrook to settle down around her, she was going to go to the duke’s suite now. She’d be in his bed when he turned in for the night.
He wouldn’t dare refuse her.
What man would?
Instead of undressing for the night, Martha remained in her lavender dress. Catching sight of herself in the mirror over the bureau, she sighed.
Regardless of how many minutes she spent with her hair, it was a disaster: curly, unmanageable, and definitely possessing a mind of its own. It was simply easier to allow it to do what it wanted. The humidity hadn’t helped matters. Now her hair formed a corona around her head, making it appear she hadn’t spent any time on it all day.
Sometimes she wished she could be more like Josephine with her beautiful hair that never seemed out of place.
How foolish. She was herself. Envying someone else would never fix her hair.
Sometimes, however, she wanted to know what it felt like to look in the mirror and be greeted by perfection. She certainly didn’t have it. Her nose was slightly long for her face while her mouth was too large. She had a mole near her left eye and it always looked like a spot of dirt on her face. Her chin was too forceful, her jawline too sharp. Yet her eyes were a warm brown and possibly her best feature, being clear and direct.
Her father had once said she had a way of demanding the truth with her gaze, that no one could lie to her.
She would like, just once, for someone—a man—to be swept away by her appearance. If he gazed into her eyes and wanted to see, not their color, but what lay beneath, to examine the person she hid from the world.
She knew full well she didn’t want just any man to be attracted to her. She wanted it to be the Duke of Roth.
Josephine didn’t see who he was; she saw only the title and Sedgebrook. Because Jordan had a physical impairment, she discounted his attractiveness. How could she overlook his beauty: the symmetry of his features, the perfect smile, those high cheekbones, and his striking deep blue eyes?
Of course, Josephine hadn’t seen the way his hands moved, the care with which he touched her father’s ship. His fingers had smoothed over the copper with almost a loving touch. The same gentleness he’d show a lover.
She stared at herself in the mirror, shocked. What was happening to her? She was thinking thoughts she’d never had before about a man who was nearly a stranger.
No, he wasn’t that, was he?
She’d read every single one of his letters going back five years. She wept for him when reading about the death of his brother. The letters had grown more candid over the course of his friendship with her father. She knew the Duke of Roth wasn’t wealthy, that Sedgebrook was expensive to maintain.
When Amy knocked on the door she opened it, letting the maid into her room.
“Thank you, Miss Martha. I didn’t know who else to talk to about this.”
Amy’s hands smoothed down the skirt of her dark blue dress repeatedly as she talked, a habit she had when she was nervous.
She motioned Amy to the chair, but the maid only shook her head, still standing by the door.
“It’s your sister, Miss Martha.”
What has Josephine done now?
“I’ve been listening to some of the other maids here, Miss Martha. They were talking about Miss Josephine. I’m afraid t
hey weren’t saying very many nice things about her.”
Gossip went on in any house, but she could imagine the sheer size of the staff at Sedgebrook made gossip almost an industry. Add in the fact that Josephine was beautiful and wealthy and it wasn’t surprising that she was being talked about.
Evidently, however, it wasn’t her beauty or her wealth but rather her behavior that was under discussion.
“She’s been asking for special favors, Miss Martha. Wanting to be treated almost like family I’ve heard it said. She’s given one of the maids enough money that it’s caused problems among the staff. She insisted on meeting with the cook this afternoon to revise the breakfast menu. And she told Mrs. Browning that some of the upstairs maids had been lazy. There was dust on some of the portrait frames in the upper hall.”
Amy’s usual pleasant face was contorted with worry.
“Mrs. Browning told one of the girls that if Josephine wasn’t stopped, she was going to the duke himself.”
She and Amy exchanged a look. Each of them knew that Josephine was nearly impossible to constrain. Gran was the only one who could do it. Even Marie had never tried.
What did they do now?
She went and sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping her arm around one of the posts. If she could, she’d magically transport them back to Griffin House where there was no hint of looming disaster.
Should she tell Amy what Josephine had planned? No, she wouldn’t be able to keep the maid from telling Gran. There was a possibility Josephine had been teasing her, but after what Amy said, she was beginning to think Josephine was serious.
“I’ll talk to her,” she said.
She didn’t have much hope that her words would be enough to change Josephine’s behavior. But surely her sister could see that she was putting herself in jeopardy? Servants talked. Rumors spread like fire. Something that happened in a country house could easily carry to London. Josephine would be tainted by the aura of her own rudeness before she even had a season. Playing Lady of the Manor at Sedgebrook was hardly the way to ease her way into society.
