by Amy Lake
Thud. Thud. Burdock weed flew through the air, and the canvas sheeting soon held a respectable pile. Benjamin pulled fast and hard, trying to think of nothing but the feel of the stems in his hands, the odd, bitter smell of the crushed leaves, and the soft sounds of Xairephon browsing nearby.
He had brooded long enough about how matters stood at Luton Court, thought the duke. He had tasks at hand this morning on his own lands. Best to concentrate on them.
Thud. Another clump flew wide, missing the canvas by yards, and Benjamin stopped, breathing hard.
"They are Burs, I can tell you, they'll stick where they are thrown."
The line of Shakespeare rose unbidden, unearthed from some schoolboy memory, and he had a vision, with it, of a person.
A person, thrown away.
What nonsense. The duke renewed his attack on the burdock.
An hour later it was near done, and Benjamin stood back panting, wiping sweat from his eyes with now filthy gloves. He had any number of men to pull burdock for him, of course. He had any number of men to do anything that needed doing at Corsham. But without the burdock to pull...
He could have removed to London months ago.
He could have seen her, again, months ago.
One last clump was especially stubborn; Benjamin gave it a vicious yank, and the burdock gave way suddenly, depositing him rump over teakettle on the sward.
"Oof.” Chagrined, he stood up and rubbed his backside, grateful that no-one besides Xairephon was nearby. ‘Twas clearly time to return to the house, especially as his stomach was angrily complaining that he had once again neglected nuncheon. Hard labor, Benjamin had discovered, needed to be fed. He left the pile of burdock to be collected and burnt, and headed back on the gelding to Corsham Manor.
* * * *
"Hey!"
He and Xairephon were nearly in sight of the house when Lord Torrance saw Josiah Cleghorn approaching, slowly, also on horseback.
So to speak. Even several years in Virginia, a region as horse-mad as England could ever claim, had not been enough to teach a Massachusetts-born sailor to ride. The duke had outfitted him with a child's saddle, and given him Daisy, the slowest and gentlest mare in Wiltshire. Still—
"Hey! Duke-o!"
Benjamin grinned, glad that no-one else from the estate was present to hear his valet's latest impertinence. Josiah seemed to delight in devising new appellations for his master, and these were an on-going source of scandal to the rest of the Corsham Manor staff.
Especially to Deavers, Lord Torrance's ever-so-proper butler. Benjamin had been concerned for the man's health on the occasion of Josiah's addressing his employer as “Lord Ben.” He could only imagine what the butler's reaction might be to ‘Duke-o.'
The valet shouted again, followed by a string of curses. Daisy's parentage and intelligence were being called into question, it seemed. As the mare plodded forward, Benjamin saw that Josiah's left foot had become disengaged from its stirrup. Still cursing, the man began a slow slide down his mount's left flank.
How had he managed it? wondered the duke. Daisy's back was so broad, her gait so steady, that he would have thought it nearly impossible to fall off.
Clop. Clop.
Benjamin had a vision of Josiah's other foot catching in the reins, and the man being dragged toward him, face down in the soft turf, at Daisy's slow but relentless pace. He hurried forward to assist, just as the valet's fall was complete.
"Bloody ‘ell."
Although slow to pick up the niceties of ducal address, Josiah had wasted no time in becoming fluent in the local cant. The valet sat up and glared at Benjamin.
"Horses,” he spat, as if that one word expressed it all.
The duke did not argue. “What,” he asked Josiah, “has disturbed your peaceful existence indoors?"
"A letter.” said the valet. “From London."
London? Benjamin's heart slammed against his ribs, although he knew it couldn't be from her. A letter from a woman he had not seen, not spoken to, nor written to for this past half a year? Absurd.
Josiah extracted a crumpled envelope from his waistband and handed it to the duke. Benjamin saw at once that the fist was that of Charles Waverly, his solicitor. Waverly was a young man, and had newly taken over the firm from his father, the old duke's solicitor, who had been in charge of financial matters for the family during Benjamin's long absence.
He ripped open the envelope, curious. Charles Waverly had written him only twice before during his stay in Wiltshire, and both times had been only to confirm some detail of the duke's inheritance, portions of which had been held in abeyance until his return to England.
"Your grace,” began the solicitor, and Benjamin grimaced. ‘My lord’ he could tolerate, but ‘your grace’ was something to be said before a meal.
* * * *
In your continued absence from London, Waverly continued, I've taken it upon myself to make a preliminary inspection of Marchers House. It is uninhabited and, I fear, in far, far worse condition than anticipated...
Lord Torrance's brow furrowed in surprise. Marchers House was the ducal townhome, and he had assumed it would have received the same careful attention as Corsham Manor. Uninhabited? If the old duke had been dead since Benjamin's first year in Virginia-
Good heavens, had the place been left abandoned these past ten years? It must be a near wreck by now, he thought, knowing too much about the dirt of London and the vicissitudes of its weather to hope for much better.
In your continued absence...
The duke felt the implied rebuke in the solicitor's words, and he felt a surge of anger. Why had he not been informed of this earlier? And wasn't it Waverly's job to see that Marchers House was kept in good repair? How dare he suggest-?
His anger quickly evaporated. No. No, it wasn't the solicitor's job. The job belonged to him, Benjamin Torrance, Duke of Grentham, and even if he'd not known the true state of Marcher's House, ‘twas no excuse. He had put this journey off long enough.
The duke finished the letter, with its lowering catalogue of broken windows, crumbling brick, and dry rot. He drew a deep breath, and blew it slowly out.
"Well, Josiah,” he told his waiting valet. “It seems that we are going to town."
CHAPTER TWO
The townhome of the Dukes of Grentham-Marchers-was situated in Audley Square, not three streets from Lady Pamela's own address. She had not known of the house. She might have known it, from her years in London, had it stood directly on a line between Hillsleigh and Green Park, or had the previous duke and his duchess been fond of entertaining. But according to the bits of gossip Pam had been able to glean, the old duke had shunned London in his final years. He had preferred to spend all his time at the Wiltshire estate.
His final years.... Since the death of Guenevieve Phillips, Pam supposed. The old duke had two daughters and the eldest, Guenevieve, had been the mother of Helène Phillips, at whose wedding ball she and Lord Torrance...
At whose wedding ball she and Lord Torrance had waltzed.
Lady Pamela remembered the tragic story Helène had recounted, about the old duke's wrath at Guenevieve's marriage to a mere carriagemaker, and her mother's subsequent, early death. Marchers had been the site of much sadness for that family.
The house now belonged to Lord Benjamin Torrance, of course. But London society knew nothing of the new Duke of Grentham, who had yet to make his appearance in town. One might expect, Lady Pamela had thought, that the house would be readied for his arrival. And perhaps if one was observant-discreetly observant, of course-one might chance to tell if that arrival would be occurring soon.
And so, upon her remove from Luton to town that past spring, Lady Pamela happened one day to vary the path of her afternoon walk, and thus came upon Marchers for the first time, a huge, greystone edifice standing well back from the pavement. Pam had told herself that it was sheer curiosity that brought her here, to a house she had now heard of but never seen. She enjoyed fine archi
tecture, did she not?-and the great homes of the ton had fascinated her since childhood. All of them were large, of course, but each betrayed the individual tastes of its builder; some elegant and cheerful, sporting the tracery of ivy on white brick, others massive and hulking, turning a cold face to the outside world.
And Marchers? Lady Pamela had intended only a quick stroll past the house, her gaze kept carefully on the path ahead, her demeanor nonchalant. But after that first glimpse of Marchers, after she'd noted the fine greystone facade, with its punctuation of elegant, arched windows, she had found her feet suddenly rooted to the pavement.
"Milady?” The maid had been trailing a few steps behind.
"A moment—"
"Milady.” Maggie had been fussing that day, which wasn't like her. A man was following them, the girl had complained. The same man as before.
Pam had not paid much heed. “I don't suppose so,” she had told her maid. “I can't think why anyone would be following us."
"Oh, but milady—"
The maid's protests were forgotten as Lady Pamela's attention was caught by something unexpected, some ... peculiarity at the front of Marchers House. She frowned, looking closely at the windows of the facade.
A shard of broken glass glinted in the sun. And, now that she ceased any pretense of a casual walk through Audley Square, and stared openly, other evidence of the home's disrepair became obvious. How could she not have seen it at once? The garden, larger than most, was untended and overgrown. A line of unkempt yews crowded the walkway, and weeds pushed up through the flagstones. A rectangular portico stood central to the facade, but its columns were chipped, the paint peeling.
It was all most shocking and inexplicable. Even in the absence of its master, a ducal residence should employ-at the least-an under-butler and housekeeper, in addition to the usual footmen, scullery maids, and gardeners, all working to keep it in readiness for the moment the family might choose to return.
But clearly Marchers was uninhabited, and had been so for some time. Had financial difficulties beset the family? Lord Torrance had given no indication of such a contretemps, but how else would the house have reached its current state? Lady Pamela had returned home, after a final puzzled, backward look, and spent days arguing with herself over whether or not to ask Amanda what she knew. The subject of the duke's townhome had never arisen between them. And Pam had avoided the subject of the Duke of Grentham ever since leaving Bedfordshire, for ‘twould take very little to put Lady Detweiler on the scent once again.
Best not to mention it, perhaps.
But the deserted house was a puzzle, and it troubled her, for Lord Torrance didn't seem a man to make light of his responsibilities. So Lady Pamela had returned to Marchers House day after day, as spring became summer, and the summer turned to fall. Nothing changed-nothing but the weeds, that is, which had grown ever taller throughout the summer, and the vines of honeysuckle, which ran rampant and unpruned. The house appeared as it had before; dark, forbidding, and battered with time, showing no hints of present or future habitation. There had been, as best she could see, no additional broken windows, although Lady Pamela wasn't sure what she could have done about them anyway.
Write to Lord Torrance, she supposed. Perhaps he didn't know the condition of his London home. But her heart shied from this idea, shied from any admission that Marchers had become an object of interest.
He must know, she decided. His Wiltshire estate has taken the most of his attention, no doubt-but he must know.
* * * *
That evening's entertainment was the Earl of Carnath's bal d'or et d'argent. Pamela and Lady Detweiler rode together in the Sinclair carriage, accompanied by young Maximilian Detweiler, one of Amanda's many cousins. Maximilian shared the dark good looks of the Clairveax-Detweiler clan-the thick mane of coal-black hair and grey eyes, combined with that family's high, aristocratic cheekbones.
All the better to look down one's nose at the riffraff below, as Lady Detweiler always claimed.
"Max, darling, can you remove your benighted Hessians from the hem of my cape?"
"Lud,” said Max. “I do believe that your cape ought to be thrilled that my Hessians were anywhere near. Have you ever seen such a polish? Biggens's latest recette, you know-warm champagne and beeswax."
"Warm champagne?” said his cousin. “How revolting.” She turned to Lady Pamela. “I don't think we've advanced ten yards this past hour. Shall we see Carnath before midnight, d’ you suppose?"
"'Tis seeming less and less likely."
The earl's ballroom was decorated every year in trimmings of gold and silver alone, and ‘twould be a lovely sight, Lady Pam knew, if the carriage ever reached a point close enough to allow them to descend. The Carnath townhome was situated in a prestigious neighborhood, of course, but on one of the older and narrower of London's residential streets, and every year the evening of the bal d'or et d'argent brought groans and complaints from the carriage drivers of the ton.
"H'ya!"
Their own coachman swore, and the carriage rocked as another squeezed past in the opposite direction. Lady Pam held her breath, hearing the shouts of men and the nervous whinnying of horses. But the near collision went unremarked by the other inhabitants of the coach.
"I shall await your first waltz with Lord Burgess, cousin,” Maximilian was saying, “since your last encounter at Almack's was so vastly entertaining.” Max grinned and sniffed loudly. “'Twas a wondrously stifled scream, as I recall. Have you found better protection for your toes?"
"Waltz with Lord Burgess! I should say not,” replied Lady Detweiler. She glared at him.
"I believe he carries a tendre for you,” said Max. “Well concealed, of course."
"Better concealed than your infatuation with Miss Wainwright.” Amanda waved her fan airily, and yawned. “Calf-love is so boring, I always say."
Her cousin made a rude sound.
"How delightful. With such elegance of manner, the lovely Angelique will soon be yours."
Lady Detweiler and her young cousin had traded similar barbs during the whole of their journey, and Pamela, although usually appreciative of a sharp wit, was growing eager for the ride to be at an end. The coach had stopped for what seemed the tenth time in the past half of an hour, and she peered from the window, trying to determine how close they had come to their destination. The London night was wreathed in fog, however, and she could see nothing of the street beyond, only the riders at their side.
Was the fog as thick in Virginia? Did the lords and ladies of Charlottesville have such balls? Or had Benjamin-Lord Torrance-said that there were no lords and ladies? Lady Pamela could not recall. She was aware of the democratic peculiarities of the American states; still, they must have had parties of some sort. Everyone enjoyed dancing, and the duke had waltzed marvelously—
The carriage stopped with a sharp jerk.
"Good heavens,” said Lady Detweiler; then, with a glance out the window, “Finally."
"Allow me, ladies."
"Maximilian, for heaven's sake, mind your buckles. This is the third gown you've snagged."
"These buckles...” began Max.
Lady Pamela, ignoring them both, stepped from the carriage and looked up at the windows of the Carnath home. They shone brightly with candlelight, and she remembered a time when the warm glow would have gladdened her heart, marking the promise of laughter and good company within. Laughter, and friends, and dancing, which she loved. Indeed, much of what had once made her happy would be at the earl's bal d'or et d'argent.
Although not, of course, the Duke of Grentham. Pamela admitted to herself, for the first time in all the months since Luton, that she missed him. That she longed to see him again, longed to waltz with him, feel his arms holding her, caressing her.
Longed to feel his touch once again at her breast.
What nonsense! said a little voice, indignant. You're angry with the duke, if you'll recall.
No. Not angry.
Lady Det
weiler had joined her, and they slowly wound through the throng of guests crowding the earl's front steps. The men were dressed all in black and silver, the women in cloth-of-gold. ‘Twas a pleasing sight, one of the most beautiful the ton had to offer, thought Lady Pam. The Earl of Carnath was geniality at its most expansive, and a great favorite of hers. He knew everyone in society, and approved of everything.
"Excellent, excellent,” she could hear the earl saying, as they approached the entrance to the Carnath townhome. His voice was booming, unmistakable. “My dear chap, how wonderful to see you again—"
Lady Pamela wondered if the earl happened to have made the acquaintance of the Duke of Grentham. ‘Twas not likely, she supposed, if the duke was not yet come to London.
Lady Detweiler had taken her arm, and seemed to sense what Pam had been thinking.
"I believe,” said Amanda, “that Lord Torrance must have spent his summer at Corsham Manor."
"Corsham Manor?” Pamela murmured, still lost in daydream. Lord Torrance had not arrived in London as yet, but someday, surely...
Lady Detweiler assumed an expression of beleaguered patience. “Corsham Manor. The country seat of the Dukes of Grentham."
"Ah. Yes, of course."
"Do not tell me you were unaware of the name of that estate. It simply beggars belief."
"Well, no, of course not.” Pamela took a deep breath, wishing for a change in subject. Lady Detweiler was deliberately mentioning Lord Torrance's name at every opportunity, as if she sensed that Lady Pam had not told her everything that had happened between herself and the duke.
"I believe the duke mentioned something of that residence,” she added, feigning a yawn.
"Oh, for pity's sake.” But at that moment Amanda's attention was diverted as the Earl of Carnath moved towards them, eyes twinkling with bonhomie, his lips curved in a wide smile.
