“Batman, Tillie. He was my batman.” Thank God, the years Marcus had spent dealing with the man at Oxford had inured him somewhat to Tildenbury’s insensitive disinterest in anyone in service. “I lost him at Waterloo.”
“Lost him? How does one go about losing a servant?” The question was asked in dead earnest. Myopic eyes blinked up at Marcus from the fireside chair. “Terribly careless of you, Selridge.”
“The man died.” Creighton’s voice was as brittle as autumn leaves. “He died at Waterloo, you idiot. You remember Waterloo, don’t you? Where Selridge here lost his handsome looks, his smooth gait, and damned near his life?”
Had Tillie not looked so stricken by their friend’s chastisement, Marcus might have let Creighton go on indefinitely. He knew the man to be capable of such. Creighton had inherited his earldom at an early age. In spite of that, or perhaps because of it, he had gone to war with Marcus. Only to have his military career cut short when his mother went to Prinny, and Prinny went to Wellington. He resented it terribly. One day Marcus was going to tell him exactly how fortunate he had been. “Leave it, Creighton. It doesn’t matter. You are right in one thing, Tillie. Ponsby took good care of me. He would, no doubt, have me rigged out in right proper order at this point, were he here. He was an excellent valet as well as an excellent soldier.”
“Quite right,” Tillie readily agreed. Then he smiled. When Tillie smiled like that, everyone who saw him was reminded of a rather faithful hound. Not a soul who knew him, on seeing that smile, expected anything more intelligent than the thoughts of a hound to come out of his mouth. On occasion, however, he astounded them all, including himself. “I say, Selridge. Why don’t you use your brother’s man? Joffries? Jeffers?”
“Jeffries? Julius’s valet is here? He can’t be. He’s retired. Lives at Winfield Park.” It was official. His mother had invited everyone between London and Yorkshire to this circus of a wedding. A wedding that was supposed to be quick and quiet, in the hope of avoiding a scandal. If it was not happening to him it would be funny. He looked at Creighton, who in true Creighton fashion, shrugged.
“Saw him downstairs in the foyer with your mother,” Tillie continued. “Lovely woman your mother. Frightening as the devil, but lovely. Not one to brook refusals. She—”
“Tillie!” The poor man resorted to blinking like a sleepy owl again in response to Creighton’s sudden shout. “Go and fetch Jeffries so Selridge can get dressed for his wedding. Today.”
“What? Oh. Right. Jolly good, idea. I’ll just toddle off and do that. Won’t be a moment, Selridge. We’ll get you to the church. Never fear.” This last sentiment was expressed through a closed door, as Creighton had grabbed poor Tillie by the back of the shoulders and steered him out into the corridor.
Creighton turned and sighed in relief. Marcus fell into the chair Tillie had vacated and motioned for his friend to take the one facing him. “Am I getting old or has he always been so—”
“Tiring? Exhausting? Dim?”
Marcus laughed at the man’s not very flattering, but nonetheless correct offerings.
“I daresay we are both getting old, Selridge.” His expression softened a bit. “He didn’t mean to be so insensitive. About Ponsby, that is. He’s a good fellow. He tends to…”
“Blunder through life?” Marcus suggested.
“Exactly.”
“And yet you are still his friend.”
“Yes, I suppose I am. As are you. Somebody has to be. Can’t leave him to Hubert now, can we?”
The two men smiled and Marcus shook his head. “I am sorry, Creighton. I’ve spent so much time out here alone, I must seem like a terribly ungrateful friend.”
“Nonsense. You’ve lost your brother. I, for one, would never begrudge you the wish he was here instead of two ramshackle old school chums.” Creighton was not so blunt as Tillie, but he tended to get right to the point.
“I am glad my mother thought to send for you. What a pitiful bridegroom I would make with not one friend to stand up with me. Thank you for coming, Creighton. And for bringing Tillie. Please tell me you did not ride up with Hubert.”
“God, no. We came in my carriage. Tillie’s poor valet rode with Hubert in that monstrosity of a coach. Whilst we’re on the subject of the former Duke of Selridge.”
“Were we?”
Here was the Creighton they had called “Ferret” at Oxford. If you had a secret, he was sure to “ferret” it out of you. Marcus had always been far too clever for him whilst they were in school. The wounds to his body and soul made him feel a little less sharp of late. Perhaps he was no longer a match for a man who made a game of gossip and innuendo— believable gossip because it was usually firmly rooted in the truth.
“Tell me… Major Winfield, Your Grace. How did this rather precipitous marriage come about? I am too much the gentleman to naysay the dowager duchess. The idea of this being the love match she has had your man of affairs broadcast about Town strikes me as… well.”
“I sent Abercrombie to London to procure a license. I had no idea once he left Doctors Commons he would become my mother’s personal secretary. In fact, as much as he seems to have accomplished for her in the last seven days, I should turn him off without a character for laziness. He has done more for her in a week than he does for me in a month’s time.”
“To be sure.” Creighton turned merciless eyes on Marcus and smiled. “You still have not answered my question. It was my understanding you came out here to mourn your brother and to take stock of your life. You made no mention of finding a duchess. And you certainly never mentioned getting yourself joined to the fair Clementine’s lovely, but plain, younger sister. How old is she? Sixteen?”
An unfamiliar icy rage washed over Marcus. His fist clenched before he even realized it.
“Addy is twenty and she is anything but plain. I will thank you not to describe her as such. Do I make myself clear, Creighton?” The man had the nerve to look amused. He raised his hands in mock surrender.
“Crystal, Your Grace. I meant nothing by it. I happen to like the girl, actually.”
“Oh?” Marcus had moved to the window in his agitation. He pretended to watch the parade of guests arriving. All the while his temper seethed at the idea anyone thought his Addy plain. His Addy.
“Yes. I met her in Julius’s company several times during the Season. She’s witty and a great deal of fun. Far too bright for the likes of you.”
“On that, we are in total agreement.” Marcus turned to find his friend studying him over steepled fingers. “Where did Tillie go to find Jeffries? Edinburgh?”
“Still,” Creighton continued. If he heard Marcus’s question he chose to ignore it. “More than one person has remarked, since the news broke in London, perhaps you are marrying Miss Formsby-Smythe for your brother’s sake. If I were her brother, I might have insisted you do so.”
“What a ridiculous idea. I am marrying her because I wish to and that is all. What on earth would Julius have to do with it?”
“He and Crosby danced attendance on her the entire Season. You were too besotted with the fair Clementine to notice.”
“I went to war, Creighton. That was a bit distracting as well.”
“Hmm. I suppose. There was more, however, than one guinea laid on at White’s she would bring old Julius to point by Christmas. Then well…”
“Yes.” Marcus bit the word off with a snap of his teeth. “October. Badly done of him, to die before he could be brought to point.”
Creighton looked at his hands and then reached to brush some nonexistent dirt from his shoe.
“Tell me something, Creighton. Had I died at Waterloo, would you have expected my brother to marry Clementine in my stead?”
“God, no. I liked him far better than I like you.”
The tension between them popped like a bubble. They chuckled in agreement.
“Seen Edgehill lately?” Marcus inquired. He opened the top drawer of the tallboy and pulled out a new neckcloth.
“All the time. He practically lives at White’s.” They both knew the significance of that statement. White’s served the gentlemen of the ton in many ways—as meeting place, as recreation hall, and last, but not least, as shelter from storms at home, female storms in particular.
“Ah,” was all Marcus could think to reply.
“Yes.”
“Poor devil,” they agreed together, evoking another chuckle.
“My money was never on Julius, you know.”
Marcus’s ears pricked at the tone of his friend’s voice. In addition to being the consummate gossip, Creighton was also a devoted troublemaker. In school, it had been fascinating to watch the results of his meddling. They were grown now. The fascination might not be so alluring.
“Must I ask whom your money was on, or will you tell me, simply to see the look on my face?” Marcus stared at the door, willing Tillie to appear.
“Crosby, of course. His grandmother’s country place is next to the Formsby-Smythe’s. He and your lovely bride have been thick as thieves since they were children. Everyone assumed there was some sort of understanding—”
“I can assure you there was not.” Marcus despised the way his voice rose on those words. He despised the heavy feeling in his chest at Creighton’s insinuation more.
“I’m certain you’re right. Crosby, however, may beg to differ. He seemed quite surprised when I told him the news.”
So, that was Creighton’s game. Trust him to try and stir the pot.
“You told him Addy and I are to be married?” Marcus measured his words carefully. “Before he received his invitation to the wedding?”
“Funny thing, that.” Creighton propped his foot on his knee with a smile. “Seems Crosby was not on the guest list. Your man, Abercrombie, hired a regiment of footmen to deliver a mound of invitations, but Crosby’s name did not appear on any of them. I cannot imagine why.”
He pretended to be interested in the arrival of the latest carriage, but Marcus did not even try to hide his grin. For some reason, the idea Addy failed to invite her childhood “friend” to the wedding pleased him a great deal. He knew it was silly and trite, but for once he did not care.
“It was an oversight on Mrs. Formsby-Smythe’s part. The guest list was hastily put together, after all.”
“I knew you’d feel that way, Selridge. You wouldn’t want your bride to be disappointed, now would you? Least I could do.”
Marcus stared icily into Creighton’s smiling face. He raised his eyebrow and schooled his features into a look of bored disdain, in spite of the tightening of his shoulders.
“Crosby was only too happy to accompany Tillie and myself up from London. Said he couldn’t possibly miss the wedding of his best friend.”
“So, you…”
“Yes. I fetched Crosby along to your wedding.”
“Bloody hell,” Marcus muttered as the door flew open and a very pleased Tillie strolled into the room.
“Here we are, Selridge. Joffies here will have you ready in short order. What have I missed?”
Chapter Ten
It was all wrong. Marcus could not say why. He sat in the master’s bedchamber, the Duke of Selridge, and still saw himself as an intruder. This room had been his father’s and then his brother’s. It was never supposed to be his. All of these months he’d slept in the bed where the Dukes of Selridge had slept for too many generations to count—suddenly, today, it bothered him.
The room was as it had always been. Persian rugs over dark blue carpet covered floors made of solid oak. The blue and gold bed hangings kept out even the hint of light when drawn around a bed big enough to sleep four full-grown men. Every piece of furniture, from the chairs by the fire, to the wardrobe in the corner to the tallboy and shaving stand across the room spoke of dignity and consequence and duty.
Since Julius’s death, he had done all the things a newly invested duke was supposed to do. He had visited each of his estates—not just visited, but ridden over, consulted with the stewards, talked to his tenants. He’d listened to their concerns and worked hard to familiarize himself with all of his responsibilities. Why was it then, on this day, he finally began to feel the reality of it all, the burden?
Jeffries had started it. He’d entered the room much as he had when serving Julius. His demeanor and movements were a clear indication as he had served the previous duke, he had no qualms about serving this one. Tillie and Creighton were no help at all.
“You shouldn’t be doing this, Jeffries. You are no longer in service, you know. I thought you went to London to visit your sister.” Marcus remembered this because his mother had remarked it was the first time Jeffries had left his cottage at Winfield Park since Julius’s death. The man was so quiet, so efficient. He made every effort to make himself invisible, less substantial than the furniture but no less functional.
“He doesn’t mind,” Tillie said. “Do you, Joffries?”
“Not at all, sir.” He inclined his head to Tillie. The gesture of respect was completely undeserved. The man couldn’t even remember Jeffries’s name.
“I am certain he doesn’t, Selridge,” Creighton agreed. “Jeffries knows what he owes this family.” At least he had the decency to pointedly emphasize the name in Tillie’s direction.
“Jeffries owes this family nothing, Creighton.” Marcus whipped the neckcloth in his hand around his neck and began to knot it. “Don’t bother with this, Jeffries. My mother would appreciate your company right now.”
Marcus was angry. He was furious at his friends’ treatment of the former valet—his brother’s… lover. The only man in the room who knew he was angry, was the tall, thin, dignified man who went to the highboy, removed a fresh neckcloth from the top drawer, and indicated with a flick of his eyes Marcus should sit. There was a brief war of unspoken words before he acquiesced and settled onto the arm of the fireside chair.
“You don’t have to do this.” Marcus spoke softly. There was no need. Creighton and Tillie had lost interest and gone to the window to see if anyone of import was arriving.
“I know, Your Grace. I would, however, like to, if it is all the same to you.”
Something about the way he’d said those words. It rendered Marcus incapable of refusing. He sat in silence, whilst Jeffries turned a plain white piece of fabric into an elegant neckcloth. That is when the room began to look like some foreign relic he had never before seen. Was it Jeffries who’d started his thoughts on this path or was it something else? Or, perhaps, someone else. Marcus had done an excellent job of avoiding his betrothed these last few days. After today, he would never be able to do so again.
He was taking a wife. Neither the pomp of his investiture, nor the last nearly six months of being the Duke of Selridge had done what marrying Addy would do. A wife meant more than responsibility for a woman, more than being unable to avoid her. A wife meant a duchess, a family, and children. He had never thought to leave much of a legacy behind when he died. The choice was, from this day forward, completely out of his hands.
It was sad, but perfectly acceptable to muck up your own future. After today, he would be completely capable of mucking up Addy’s. The burden of that responsibility made him feel one overwhelming thing. Inadequate. God, his head hurt. And his chest. And his stomach.
As if that weren’t enough, there were those damned letters. This last one included proof the blackmailer had ammunition with which to back up his threats. Marcus had no intention of asking Addy about it. In all likelihood, she knew nothing. The only person with knowledge of what the blackmailer threatened to expose was the only man Marcus could not, in honor, bring himself to ask. That man was currently acting as his valet. If there was a proper etiquette for questioning one’s brother’s male lover on any aspect of their life together, Marcus had not read it. The last few weeks made Waterloo look like a stroll in Kew Gardens.
“Could you lift your head just a bit, Your Grace?”
Marcus glanced at his friends at the window
and then looked up at Jeffries inquiring face. “Does it feel odd, Jeffries?” he asked when the valet’s request finally filtered through his random thoughts of panic, and he lifted his head. “Calling me…” He could not make himself say it.
“Your Grace? Not at all, Your Grace.” They both managed a smile. “I daresay you will grow accustomed to it in time.”
“Did Julius?” Marcus struggled to explain. “Did he ever get used to,” he waved his hand at the room at large. “To all of this?”
“He did.” Jeffries stepped back to admire his work. “You must remember, Your Grace. He was raised to be a duke from the day he was born. He never had the chance to think of being anything else.” Trust Jeffries to put the entire thing in perspective.
“Of course. I knew that. It is difficult to fill a position for which one has had no training.”
“Nor ever wished to assume,” Jeffries said. Marcus’s astonishment must have shown, for he hesitated before he continued. “Your brother was more than aware you never wanted to succeed him.”
“Or become a husband, after the first Miss Formsby-Smythe handed me my heart on a plate.”
The veriest hint of a smile flitted across Jeffries’s face. “If I may be so bold, Your Grace, you have done far better for yourself this time. Miss Adelaide Formsby-Smythe is a rare young woman, a far better match for you than her sister.”
“Is that your opinion, Jeffries? Or my brother’s?” Both men’s eyes were drawn to the window, where Tillie and Creighton groaned in unison at some commotion in the front drive.
“Both, Your Grace. Is there some problem, gentlemen?” Jeffries followed Marcus to join the two grumbling dandies.
“You will never guess who is climbing into a carriage heading off to the church Selridge,” Tillie exclaimed.
“Lady Gertrude Haverly is here,” Creighton said, beating his companion to the punch. “Who on earth invited that old battle axe to your wedding?”
“Richmond’s great aunt, Lady Haverly?” Marcus joined his friends in crowding at the window to see.
Lost In Love (Road To Forever Series #1) Page 12
