“Since when?”
The butler allowed a shrug. “If I may be blunt, my lord—”
“Be blunt,” Will demanded.
“Ever since he banished Lady Barbara from this house.”
Will stared at the servant. Banished?
“What happened to cause him to do such a thing?” Will asked as he leaned forward, a fierce expression on his face.
“I do not know. I do not think anyone but he and her ladyship know the reason, my lord,” the butler said with a shrug. He appeared a bit uncertain as to what he would say next until Will noticed.
“And?”
“I am of the opinion she sought refuge, perhaps in Oxfordshire, my lord.”
Oxfordshire?
The Greenley earldom seat was somewhere in Staffordshire. Why would Barbara be in Oxfordshire?
“Refuge?” Will repeated. The word implied Barbara had run away. That she’d had nowhere else to go. “With whom?”
The butler shook his head. “I only know this because I overheard his lordship... yelling... at his solicitor one afternoon. About seven years ago now,” he explained. “He was incensed about something he had learned, and he insisted she be sent away from London, never to return.”
Jesus! What had Barbara done to elicit an order of banishment from Pendleton House? “What did she do?” he asked.
Shrugging, the butler finally took the seat opposite of Will’s. “My lord, that is the question that was on the entire household’s mind the night she took her leave of Pendleton House. She had but one trunk. Not even her lady’s maid accompanied her—”
“Where? Where did she go?” Will interrupted, alarmed at the information. “Did she...?” At this, he had to close his eyes and prepare himself for news he did not wish to hear. “Marry someone beneath her station?”
The servant shook his head. “No, my lord, nothing like that,” he said quickly. “Although, I cannot help but think a marriage would have helped her situation.”
His brows furrowing, Will regarded the butler for a moment. “Why?”
The butler sighed. “There was some talk above stairs that her ladyship might have been... compromised, my lord. And that her father somehow found out, and rather than call out the man responsible, he simply banished her.” He paused a moment and lowered his voice. “Actually, I don’t believe his lordship even knows where she is.”
Suddenly light-headed, Will was forced to close his eyes. I compromised her, he thought then. Ruined her. Ruined her so that she would be forced to marry me and only me upon my return to England.
Jesus! What have I done?
He hadn’t expected to be away nearly eight years. He had thought to serve for four or five years and then sell his commission. Use the earnings to buy a fashionable townhouse so that they might live comfortably in London until he was forced by his father’s death to become the Marquess of Devonville.
But who had Barbara told? He hadn’t said a word to anyone. He hadn’t disclosed their secret.
Not even to his father.
“Who started the talk?” Will asked finally, noting the butler seemed willing to share whatever information he could with him. So much for discretion when it came to the servants of Pendleton House!
“I cannot say. Her lady’s maid was left without employment, of course, seeing as how there wasn’t another lady in the house once Lady Barbara took her leave.”
Not another lady. Well, Barbara’s mother had died in childbirth when Barbara was only thirteen, Will remembered. And if there wasn’t another lady in the house, then what had happened to Barbara’s sister, Beatrice? Perhaps she had married. Perhaps Greenley had never remarried.
The maid, Will decided. She might have been left embittered by having lost her position. Might have spread gossip. Might have made claims that were simply untrue.
Might have spread the truth.
“Did she gain another position soon after? In another household, perhaps?” Will asked. Would the maid know where Barbara had gone off to?
“I cannot say, my lord. I honestly do not know.”
So, the lady’s maid was a dead end.
“Do you know where Barbara went when she left here?” Will asked in a voice far more calm than he felt. He had decided patience would gain him more information than the sudden demands he wanted to make of the butler. He wanted to yell and make accusations and stomp his feet in frustration. Wanted to make threats he had no hope of seeing through to their bitter end.
“I believe her ladyship was sent somewhere west of Lord Ellsworth’s summer home,” the servant said with a shake of his head. “North of the Isis River.” He paused a moment. “Truth be told, my lord, I am quite sure Lord Greenley doesn’t know where she is. He had his man of business see to the arrangements. I think because...” He did not finish the sentence, as if the thoughts of a servant were not to be considered.
“He did not wish his conscious to force him to go there?” Will wondered.
The butler nodded. “Something like that,” he agreed, his eyes downcast. “I honestly thought he would have her brought back. That he would change his mind and decide he had reacted badly to mere gossip,” he whispered. “But he only became more and more embittered with each passing year. I’ve seen him burning correspondence on more than one occasion, as if he thinks she is dead.”
Will nodded his understanding, suddenly realizing why his letters may not have reached Barbara. But his mind was already considering the butler’s earlier words. Ellsworth? That would be the Earl of Ellsworth, he remembered. He had no idea where the earl’s summer estate was located, but someone else would know such a thing.
Will sighed as he scraped his fingers through his hair. “And his man of business? Where might I find him?” Will asked as he straightened in his chair.
The butler sighed. “It was Andrew Barton, my lord. I have not seen him in many years, but last I knew, he had an office in Oxford Street.”
Will nodded, hoping he had enough to go on. “Anything else I should know?” he asked, hoping the man might provide a tidbit of information that could lead him directly to Barbara. Even if the woman was married, he wanted to be sure she was safe. Be sure she had protection.
Wherever she was.
The butler regarded him for a long moment. “May I ask as to your intentions, my lord? I ask only because I have known Lady Barbara since her birth. Not a day goes by I don’t wonder what’s become of the poor girl.”
His shoulders slumping, Will wondered how to respond. The truth, he decided. What could it hurt?
“I intend to make her my wife,” he said with a good deal of authority. “Make her my countess, and then my marchioness when the time comes.”
The butler’s face brightened for the first time since he had opened the door of Pendleton House that morning. “Very good, my lord,” he responded with a nod. “Very good.”
Chapter 6
A Shopping Trip Yields Clothes and Curiosity
Meanwhile, back at Devonville House
“I rather wish I’d had the opportunity to meet your mother,” Cherice said after Stephen handed her into the Devonville town coach.
“She lived in France until she was twenty and then in Westminster for a few years,” Stephen countered, thinking they wouldn’t have had many opportunities to meet. “Until we moved out to Kent when I was... four or five.”
Cherice angled her head to one side. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t have been allowed to be seen in the same company as Miss St. Clair,” she said in a quiet voice. “Propriety and all.”
Stephen blinked and then shook his head, color suffusing his neck and face. “I apologize. I sometimes forget she had a... profession.” After a slight pause, his eyes widened. “You don’t have to worry about her and my father, though. They haven’t been—”
“Oh, I know Devonville isn’t about to take up a mistress again,” Cherice said with a shake of her head. “He’s made that quite clear. Several times.” She allowed a wan smile. “Some
men can be so proud, though.” At Stephen’s frown and look of confusion, she sighed. “I’m sure your mother has explained why it is the aristocrats favor mistresses rather than their own wives, hasn’t she?”
Stephen blinked and continued to display a rather red face. “My lady, I don’t believe she ever discussed the topic,” he replied, remembering only how his mother spoke of the marquess as if he was the love of her life.
Despite knowing William Slater would never be allowed to marry her, Marie St. Clair had agreed to end a contract with an earl to be exclusive to the marquess. She knew she wasn’t William’s first mistress, but she was definitely his last. Bearing his son ensured the two would be tied to one another for the rest of their lives, even if she was no longer a part of his. They’d had several happy years together, though.
Cherice settled into the squabs and angled her head, a small smile lighting her features. She wasn’t a young woman—perhaps forty, Stephen guessed—but she obviously did what other aristocratic women did to look their best. Despite the clouds overhead, she kept a parasol with her at all times and never allowed a ray of sun to strike her face. Her maid was quite good at styling her hair, and her modiste created gowns that enhanced her every attribute.
“Every aristocrat has to marry and sire an heir,” she stated evenly, as if she was imparting a school lesson to the young man who sat across from her in the town coach. “If there isn’t a direct heir, their younger brother or some nephew or cousin inherits their title.”
Nodding, Stephen said, “I’m quite aware of the inheritance rules, my lady.”
Cherice went on as if he hadn’t said a word. “Sometimes, and this used to be more common than it is now, they had to marry someone to whom they had been betrothed through an arrangement, usually by their parents.”
“But, that’s no longer the case,” Stephen started to say.
“Officially, that’s true,” Cherice hedged. “But we all know of marriages that are more arrangements than unions of affection. Now, when a man has been forced to marry out of duty, and he doesn’t feel any affection toward his wife, he takes a mistress, usually a woman he claims to love, so that he can have his own life away from the life he is duty-bound to live.”
Stephen stared at Cherice, rather surprised at how matter-of-fact she seemed with her recitation. He leaned forward, his face taking on a look of disbelief when he suddenly realized why Lady Devonville might be telling him about mistresses. “Lord Winslow had a mistress?” he whispered, wondering why the baron would have looked elsewhere for affection when Cherice Dubois was his wife. The woman seemed agreeable. She was beautiful. Why would a man seek a mistress when he could have her in his bed?
Her eyes widening with Stephen’s query, Cherice sighed. “He did. Several of them, in fact,” she said quietly. “Oh, I think he tried to have me believe he didn’t employ them, but he rarely came home before dawn, and let’s just say that was the reason his young brother inherited. I certainly didn’t bear him an heir.”
Not sure how to respond, Stephen merely nodded. He frowned suddenly, thinking he understood her line of conversation. “Are you... offended that I’ve come to stay at Devonville House? Because, if you are, I can certainly leave...”
Cherice inhaled sharply, realizing the young man had gleaned more from her talk than she expected. “No. Actually, I am not. I suppose I should be, but... I find I rather like you. And your brother, of course.” She allowed a wan smile. “Your father is very free with his affections toward me—he pursued me, you see—so I don’t believe a mistress is in his future—”
“He wouldn’t dare take a mistress,” Stephen interrupted. At her look of astonishment, he added, “My mother made me promise to challenge him to a duel should he do such a thing. I thought she was teasing at the time, but... now I think she was concerned for your welfare.”
Blinking, as if she might be fighting back tears, Cherice regarded Stephen for a long time. Even if Marie St. Clair didn’t reside in London, she would have known about Lord Winslow’s mistresses. Probably knew one or two of them personally. “Oh,” she finally breathed. “Now I really do wish I had met your mother. I believe we would have been the best of friends.” This last was said just as the coach jerked to a halt. “Well, shall we then?” she asked as she nodded toward the door, any evidence of her tears gone.
Stephen stepped down from the Devonville town coach and glanced up and down the busy shop-lined district known as Bond Street. Ladies milled about, some escorted by companions while others were trailed by maids and footmen. Pasteboard boxes in various colors hung from hands or were stacked in the arms of servants. He had a brief thought to climb back into the coach and hide but had to give up on the idea when Lady Devonville appeared and took his hand.
“The best tailor is Jeffrey Garth, but since we don’t have an appointment, I’ll have to see what I can do to convince the man to see you,” Cherice said as she stepped down from the coach. “Huntington’s soirée is this evening, and I rather think it will have all the shops rather busy. This way,” she said as she directed Stephen to the walkway.
“You really needn’t trouble yourself, my lady,” Stephen countered, feeling a bit out of his element. Although he had shopped in a variety of coastal towns throughout Europe and the Mediterranean, he found he was rather intimidated by the sight of the brightly colored storefronts and shingles that lined both sides of Bond Street.
“Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” Cherice replied happily. “I have my final fitting for the gown I’m to wear to Lord Weatherstone’s ball...” She pointed in the direction of a shop with swaths of fabric on display in the window. “And then I’ll see to a pair of slippers and some gloves.”
She led them into the tailor’s shop, a small but elegantly decorated space. Lined with wood paneling and deep carpeting that swallowed up their footsteps and the sounds from the street, it smelled of wool and lemon and men’s cologne.
“Good afternoon,” a young man said as he hurried in their direction, his eyes quickly determining the quality of their clothing before they even came to rest on theirs.
“Is it already?” Cherice replied brightly, a hint of disappointment showing despite her words. “Is Mr. Garth available, perhaps? I’d like to pick up my husband’s order. That is, if it hasn’t already been sent by courier to Devonville House. Oh, and Mr. Slater is in need of a suit of clothes for Lord Huntington’s soirée this evening,” she added as she indicated the young man who stood next to her.
“Just a waistcoat, is all,” Stephen interjected.
The man’s eyes widened at hearing the Devonville name. “The order hasn’t yet been dispatched, my lady,” he said with a nod. “I’ll let Mr. Garth know you’re here.” He hurried off and disappeared through a curtained doorway while Cherice moved to a display of topcoats.
“I do think you’ll want a topcoat of your own for balls,” she murmured, fingering the lapel of a black swallowtail coat. “By now, your brother’s are no doubt horribly out of fashion,” she added as she regarded a cutaway coat. She glanced in his direction and back at the coat. “I do think this will be perfect,” she murmured just as an older gentleman appeared from behind the curtain.
“Lady Devonville, so good of you to pay a call,” Jeffrey Garth said as he hurried up and bowed.
Cherice curtsied and allowed the tailor to brush a kiss over the back of her gloved hand. “Jeffrey, you are a sweeting to see me when I don’t even have an appointment,” she enthused. “How is Rebecca? I haven’t seen her in an age,” she added with a shake of her head.
Stephen stiffened, trying to figure out who Cherice meant with her comment. He wondered if he should introduce himself or if Cherice would do so when the tailor replied, “She grows more beautiful with every passing day, and not just because I have completed a new gown for her,” he said with an arched brow.
Cherice turned to Stephen. “Stephen Slater, this is Jeffrey Garth. The very best tailor in London and probably the best modiste as well, b
ut the damned man won’t make clothes for any other woman but his wife.”
Stephen did his best to hide his shock at hearing Cherice’s curse. “It’s very good to make your acquaintance, sir,” he said as he held out his right hand. “You must have a very happy wife.”
Rather surprised at the offer of a handshake and at the comment about his wife, the tailor took Stephen’s hand and shook it, his gaze passing from him to Cherice and back again. “And you, my lord,” he replied. “And I do my best to see to my Rebecca’s every desire.” This last was said with a slight arch of an eyebrow, as if he was hinting at something Stephen should find important. “Am I to understand you’re in need of a bespoke suit for tonight’s soirée?”
Glancing in Cherice’s direction, Stephen gave a hesitant nod. “At least a waistcoat, and a topcoat, I suppose. It’s seems my father’s marchioness has found the perfect coat,” he said with a nod to the cutaway coat she had just been fingering. He wondered at the man’s comment, and thought to ask Cherice about it later.
The tailor eyed the coat critically and then turned his attention back on Stephen. Before he said anything, he turned to Cherice. “My lady, I will require at least an hour with Lord Stephen. Do you wish to go shopping, perhaps? Or may I see to a glass of champagne whilst you wait?” He waved toward a Grecian couch with a low table in front.
Cherice angled her head and considered her options. “I am tempted, Jeffrey, but I do believe I’ll go to Madame Suzanne’s for my fitting.” She turned her attention onto Stephen. “Come for me there when you’re done here, darling,” she said with a wave and then took her leave of the tailor’s shop.
Stephen bowed and watched her go, secretly relieved she wouldn’t be watching while he was being fitted.
“I adore her,” Jeffrey said suddenly, plucking the cutaway coat from its mount. “If you’ll remove your coat, we’ll see to this one,” he said.
The Caress of a Commander Page 5
