The Gypsy Duchess

by Nadine Miller

  “It’s just something everybody knows,” Alfie said stubbornly. “It’s wot gypsies does, same as cats eats mice or we eats mutton.” He started to sob again, great gulping sobs that wracked his thin body. “We got to find the nipper, your grace, and we got to find ‘im fast.”

  Moira could see he was too distraught at the moment to listen to reason. “I will find the duke, Alfie,” she said firmly. “I promise you that, and I’ll bring him back safe and sound. Blackjack isn’t the only one who knows where the gypsies have made their camp.”

  Within minutes of returning to the manor house, John Butler had spread the word throughout the servants’ quarters that the duke had been kidnapped. Every groom and footman instantly volunteered for the hunting party the younger Keough brothers were forming to track down his abductors.

  Moira was frantic. As if she hadn’t enough on her plate already with worrying about Charles and Blackjack in the hands of two desperate killers, now she had a horde of wild-eyed young men brandishing pistols and threatening, among other things, to carry out their own gypsy massacre.

  “Stop!” she ordered as they gathered outside the entrance to the stables. “The surest way to get both Charles and Blackjack killed is for the lot of you to go thundering after them.”

  To her surprise, Michael Keough agreed with her. “Her grace is right,” he declared. “I’m of the mind there’s more to this than meets the eye. I’ve counted Blackjack my friend for a good many years. He may be a scoundrel and always looking for the main chance, but I stake my life he’d never let those two cutthroats touch a hair of the lad’s head.”

  “Of course he wouldn’t,” Moira said “But his only chance of saving Charles is to keep the kidnappers believing he’s thrown in with them until they reach the gypsy camp.”

  “But what good will that do? Surely the squire doesn’t think the gypsies will help him save Charles?” Elizabeth asked. “While I don’t subscribed to the bizarre stories Alfie’s heard about them, I know for a fact they’re a very devious and mysterious people. A group of them camped in the woods near the vicarage when I was a little girl and everything from laying hens to underdrawers hanging on the clotheslines went missing.”

  She shivered dramatically. “They were the strangest creatures imaginable—with dark skin and black hair and garish, bright-colored clothing that didn’t look at all clean. Why they didn’t even speak proper English. Mama hid us children in the cellar until Papa ran them off. Tell me, your grace, how could one ever dare trust such people as that?”

  All eyes turned to Moira for a reply to Elizabeth’s question. She struggled to gather her wits sufficiently to phrase an answer but before she could utter a word, Michael Keough spoke in her place. “ ‘Tis my belief Blackjack trusts this one band of gypsies because he has close—you could almost say personal—ties with them. Is that not right, your grace?”

  Moira heard the warning in his voice that told her she must do something drastic if she hoped to contain the young hotheads. He obviously knew the truth of her heritage—probably had known it for a long time, since he was the only man she had ever heard her father call his friend, and he was challenging her to divulge her secret to save her gypsy relatives from certain slaughter.

  She took a deep breath and raised her hand for silence. “Michael is absolutely right,” she said. “My father knows he can trust the gypsies because his father-in-law, my grandfather, is their king, and despite rumors to the contrary no Spanish gypsy would ever harm a child. We consider children to be life’s greatest treasures.”

  A stunned silence followed her startling announcement. Elizabeth’s face went white with shock and though her lips moved spasmodically, no sound emerged. Moira waited for someone else to say something but her entire staff appeared to be struck as dumb as Elizabeth. Everyone, that is except Alfie. Eye’s wide with horror, he emitted the one word that pretty well summed it up. “Gor’blimey!”

  Moira rose before dawn the following morning, after a troubled, sleepless night. She had spoken to no once since, with a few curt words, she’d ordered her staff back to their duties the previous evening. The maids and footmen and grooms had crept from her presence, eyes lowered to avoid meeting her gaze and even Michael Keough had hung his head sheepishly when he’d apologized for forcing her hand and begged her to understand why he’d done it.

  She had contemplated trying to talk to Elizabeth and Alfie, but decided against it. Now, with the first pale light of day brightening the horizon, she decided she was glad she had spared herself that particular agony. She simply penned a brief, impersonal note to Elizabeth explaining she had gone to fetch Charles and leaving her in charge until she returned, and left it at that.

  Grimly, she dressed in one of her serviceable black gowns and matching bonnets, made her way to the kitchen to collect a loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese, and then hurried on to the stables. The confession Michael Keough had compelled her to make had had one decided benefit. She would not have to face Devon with the truth she had promised him; it would undoubtedly be the first thing he heard when he returned to Cornwall. She wondered how long it would take him to remove Charles from her care. Not long, if he had the same reaction to her news as everyone else. It would be a miracle if she found any of her “loyal staff” still on duty when she returned.

  The only person in the stable was a young stall mucker who was curled up on one of the benches. She left him asleep and hitched the sturdiest of the carriage horses to the little tilbury she normally used to drive about the estate while visiting the tenants. It was light and easy to handle, just what she needed for traversing the country lanes between White Oaks and the spot where her grandfather and his followers had made their camp.

  The rising sun was in her eyes as she pulled away from the stable and she failed to see the small figure waiting at the edge of the yard until he hailed her. “I wants to go with you, your grace,” Alfie said, shading his eyes with his hand. “It’s only fitting since I was the one wot lost the duke, I should ‘elp bring ‘im back.”

  Moira studied his pinched little face and felt her heart twist in her breast “Are you certain, Alfie, considering how you feel about the gypsies?”

  “Yes, ma’am if you’ll have me, that is, after wot I said.”

  Moira smiled. “I’ll have you, Alfie, and be glad of the company.”

  He climbed up onto the seat beside her and they rode in silence for a few minutes before he spoke. “Lud, ma’am, truth is I never actually seen no gypsies in my whole life. Ever thin’ I said about ‘em was ‘earsay, so to speak. I should’ve twigged any story a scuttle-brained flat like the sweep told was pure claptrap.” He stared straight ahead, not meeting Moira’s eyes. “Once’t I thought on it, it come to me gypsies is prob’ly just like regular folks—some good, some bad, and some a bit of both.”

  Moira managed to hide her smile. “That’s very astute reasoning, Alfie, and pretty close to the truth. Gypsies are much the same as everyone else—only more so. They laugh louder and cry harder, they love more passionately and hate more intensely and they fight at the slightest excuse.”

  She glanced down at the solemn little boy beside her. “And at the first sound of music, they drop everything and dance as if their very lives depended on it. Blackjack calls them ‘dancing fools,’ but I think that’s because he’s jealous. It galls him that even the youngest gypsy child can dance circles around him.”

  “Sounds like gypsies has more fun than the rest of us,” Alfie said solemnly. “But I think we’d best find the nipper soon as we can. He’s kinda shy-like. All that laughin’ and cryin’ and dancin’ would probly do the little bugger in.”

  “My thought exactly,” Moira agreed, managing to keep a sober face. “In fact, I’m very much afraid a gently bred English child like Charles will find the noise and dirt and general pandemonium of a gypsy camp every bit as terrifying as being kidnapped.”

  “My thought exactly,” Alfie said, perfectly mimicking the precise accent Moira h
ad acquired through her years under the tutelage of the old duke. “It’s a good thing I come along. He trusts me, you see, and I can kinda look after ‘im whilst you hobnobs with your grandpa.”

  Moira felt sentimental tears spring to her eyes, and her heart swelled with affection for the little street urchin, who had summarily discarded a lifetime of prejudice against the Rom because of his regard for her. The implied compliment was just what she needed at the moment to bolster her faltering ego. She found herself wondering if the regard Devon St. Gwyre had professed for her would stand the test—or would he turn tail and run at the first mention of her connection to the Rom?

  Darkness was falling by the time they came within sight of the isolated grove of trees Moira knew to be the campsite of her gypsy relatives, and for the first time since she’d left White Oaks she allowed herself to relax. Except for the few moments when she’d stopped to share her small hoard of bread and cheese with Alfie, she’d been driving steadily since dawn. The sturdy carriage horse was near exhaustion and so was she and Alfie was already dozing in the seat beside her.

  She slowed the carriage almost to a halt a short distance from the grove of trees. The familiar noises of the camp preparing for the evening meal filled her ears and a tantalizing aroma of wood smoke and rabbit stew filled her nostrils,. Her stomach rumbled with hunger. The finest chef in the most noble English household couldn’t hold a candle to her gypsy grandmother when it came to seasoning with the herbs the Great Spirit of All Nature provided for imaginative cooks. At the thought of a plate of her grandmother’s guisado de conejo, she eagerly urged the horse forward the last few feet to the edge of the grove.

  Alfie woke the minute the little carriage came to a full stop and stared wide-eyed at the ring of swarthy, black-haired men, all with knives in their belts, who instantly surrounded it. “Lud Almighty,” he gasped, his fingers clutching Moira’s arm.

  “Not to worry, they’re all my relatives,” Moira said, giving his hand a comforting pat as Juan, the eldest of her male cousins, stepped forward.

  “Morita! We have been waiting for you,” he exclaimed, a smile flashing across his handsome face. “Your gaujo father knows you well. He predicted you would join us before this day ended.” His keen, black eyes surveyed Alfie. “And what is this you bring us? Another of your pollitos, mother hen?”

  “This ‘little chick’ is my good friend, Alfie,” Moira said, ruffling the hair of the boy beside her. “I take it Blackjack delivered Charles safely then? Is he terribly frightened by his strange surroundings?”

  “Carlito frightened?” Her cousin laughed. “The little one has the heart of a lion. I doubt he would fear el diablo himself if he came face to face with him. Already he is the envy of all the niños in the camp since it is plain to see he has captured the heart of Deditas de Oro. Even now he sits on the old man’s knee while they wait for their supper.”

  Moira laughed. “And I was worried my fierce gypsy grandfather would terrify him.” She dropped the reins so one of her young cousins could guide the horse the rest of the way into the clearing, and massaged her stiff fingers. “What of his kidnappers? What have you done with them?”

  “We tied the asesinos with their own ropes and threw them in the back of their wagon. The gitano who drives it will deliver them to the press gang we hear is prowling Plymouth now that King George’s Navy no longer dares board American ships to impress their seamen. A few years of swabbing the decks of a British warship should dampen your bumbling cutthroat’s enthusiasm for a life of crime.”

  Juan chuckled. “And hopefully the gitano, who has been known to sell a farmer his own chickens at twice their value, will get enough money for the wagon to replenish our dwindling supply of salt and flour. I have much hope in that regard, for he has long wished to jump the broom with my youngest sister, and I have promised him my permission if he bargains wisely.

  “But enough of such talk, little mestiza,” her handsome cousin declared. “You must be exhausted after your long drive and you will need time to rest and regain your strength. Our grandmother has been cooking all afternoon in anticipation of your arrival, and tonight there will be much singing and dancing and playing of guitars to celebrate your return to us.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  White Oaks seemed strangely quiet, almost deserted, when Devon and Stamden rode through the gate at sundown on the final day of their break-neck race from London. Devon’s spirits had risen with each mile that brought him closer to Cornwall and Moira. He was satisfied he had done everything in his power to aid Wellington to defeat the Corsican, now it was time to get on with the business of settling his own future.

  Moira had promised to tell him why she believed she could never marry and he would listen with all due courtesy, but he had already made up his mind that nothing she could say would make the slightest difference in his plans. He had found the one woman with whom he could envision sharing the rest of his life—the one woman he could love with every fiber of his being. He had no intention of letting anyone or anything stand in the way of making her his wife.

  The door of the manor house burst open as they approached, and a wild-eyed Elizabeth tore down the steps and threw herself at Stamden as he dismounted. Devon stared at his childhood friend in surprise; she looked anything but her usual, tidy self. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair loosened from its pins, her dress wrinkled. “Oh, my lords, thank heavens you’ve returned,” she cried. “I’ve been beside myself with worry.”

  Stamden tossed his reins to a waiting footman and put his arm around her. “Calm yourself, my dear. We are perfectly all right.”

  “I can see that, my lord, and I’m overjoyed. But everything else is in such a horrid mess.” She burst into tears. “It was a shock, you see. I mean, I never suspected—a gypsy—and on top of Charles being kidnapped and all, it was just too much to take in and I let her leave without saying a word to her. What must she think of me?”

  Devon’s fingers tightened on the reins. He had been about to dismount, but his legs suddenly felt as if they would collapse beneath him if he tried to stand on them. “Charles was kidnapped by a gypsy?” he gasped.

  “No! No! He was kidnapped by those same two dreadful men who tried to kidnap him in London, but the gypsies have him now—at least I think they do, if Alfie’s story is to be believed.”

  “Devil take it, woman, you’re making no sense whatsoever. How did gypsies get involved in this?” Devon asked, dismounting to stand beside his horse. “And where in God’s name is Moira?” He raised his gaze to the group of people in the doorway—John Butler, the housekeeper, the three Keough brothers—everyone except the one person he was looking for.

  “She’s gone to the gypsy camp to find Charles,” Elizabeth said between sobs. “Alone. Which I cannot think wise even if her grandfather is the King of the Gypsies, because Alfie and the squire told him the camp was a good day’s journey south of here.” She burrowed her head into Stamden’s shoulder and sobbed even harder. “And she left me in charge, but now Alfie’s gone missing as well and I don’t know what to do.”

  “Are you saying Moira is”—Devon swallowed hard—“a gypsy? What madness is this?” But even as he denied Elizabeth’s claim, he realized it answered the question for which there was no other plausible answer. If this final piece of the puzzle regarding Moira was meant to be a test of his love for her, it was cruelly effective. He had just managed to accustomed himself to the idea of an Irish smuggler as a father-in-law. A gypsy grandfather-in-law as well was almost beyond the pale.

  He turned to Stamden, whose face bore the same befuddled expression he was certain must be mirrored on his, but before he could speak, Peter silenced him with one of his telling looks. “I think we should go inside and let Elizabeth compose herself so she can start at the beginning and tell us everything that happened before we arrive at any rash conclusions,” he said quietly but firmly.

  Devon nodded his agreement, though his heart hammered with rage and despair. Silentl
y, he followed them up the steps, past the group of servant’s gathered inside the entryway and to a small salon on the second floor. At Stamden’s urging, Elizabeth seated herself, folded her hands in her lap, and proceeded to recount the startling events of the past two days in a more orderly manner.

  When she came to the part where Moira admitted her connection with the Spanish gypsies, Devon interrupted her to address Stamden. “At least I finally know the reason why she believes she could never marry me,” he said grimly.

  “It would seem logical,” his friend agreed. “Can you imagine the scandal that would ensue if it became known the Earl of Langley had married a gypsy? I’m amazed the Duke of Sheffield managed to keep it quiet.” He shuddered. “Think of the trouble Quentin could cause if he got hold of such information.”

  “She must have been living in constant terror that her secret would surface and Charles would be snatched away from her.” Devon pressed a hand to his forehead, momentarily covering his eyes. “My poor, brave darling. Why couldn’t she have trusted me with her secret?” He raised his head and met Stamden’s eyes. “It makes no difference. Maybe it should, but somehow it doesn’t. I don’t care who or what she is; I love her.”

  Stamden nodded. “Of course you do.”

  “And I must find her…and Charles immediately. I can’t depend on a band of gypsies to protect them from that devil Quentin.”

  “I agree,” Stamden said. “And I will go with you.”

  Devon’s heart swelled with gratitude for the loyalty and affection he read in his friend’s steady gaze, but he shook his head. “Not this time, Peter, though I thank you for the offer. This is one journey I must make alone.”

  It took him close to three days to find the gypsy camp. It would have taken even longer if Stamden and he had not pored over the local maps and narrowed the possibilities to three locations. Considering the general animosity toward animosity toward gypsies, they reasoned the camp would be set in a remote wooded area where they would be hidden from the eyes of the unfriendly villagers.