Adele gaped. The woman had lost her mind.
“Mother!” Leo’s bellow startled them both. He’d slipped back into the room without drawing attention to himself. His face was scarlet, his jaw bulging as fire blazed in his eyes. “Gather your belongings.”
His mother recoiled. “Whatever for?”
“I am tossing you from Corbyn Place on Harry’s behalf. And if he never opens his doors to you again, I say, bully for him.”
Fourteen
As Marcus descended a stairwell at the back of the town house, he overheard two female servants talking with one another.
“When ye measure the sugar, double the amount.” The girl had an Irish accent and spoke with authority. “The duke likes the biscuits sweeter than most.”
“What if His Grace is too sick to venture from bed tomorrow?” her companion asked with a quiver to her voice. “Mrs. Taylor is already unhappy to be saddled with me. I don’t want to be scolded for raiding the larder and wasting flour.”
“Mrs. Taylor has the Divil’s own temper, but she will come ‘round once you can prove yer worth. Learning to bake might help yer cause.”
He reached the landing and headed toward the voices, certain he had located the kitchen.
“I hope you are right,” the second girl said. “If I am turned out for not making myself useful, I have nowhere else to go.”
“Ye cannot fret about such things. I will teach ye all I’ve learned. Corbyn Place would be too dull without ye ‘round. Pass the sifter.”
When Marcus entered the kitchen, he spotted the two girls at the counter. Their backs were to him, their blond heads bent over their task. Neither of them appeared to be a day over sixteen, if that.
“Do you think the duke will know I helped make the biscuits for him?”
The shorter one—the one in charge—tweaked her friend’s cheek. “No, silly goose. But maybe John could let it slip that yer learning to bake, now that ye’ve been assigned kitchen duties.”
“Do you think John would do that for me?”
“Aye, he would do anything for an extra serving come dinner time.”
They giggled. When they sobered, the student hugged her self-appointed teacher. “Thank you, Blair. You are a true friend.”
Marcus stood in the doorway, unnoticed. He cleared his throat, but the Irish girl spoke at the same time, drowning him out. “Yer welcome, but ye cannot get yer hopes up too high, Cassia. The duke will never notice ye in the way you want, because he is important and ye are—”
“I know, but I cannot stop myself from admiring him. He is nothing like the old duke. He is kind and...pleasing—to the eye.”
Blair sighed. “Aye, the duke is a divilishly handsome man at that.”
Marcus spoke up before he overheard anything more that might cause the young women embarrassment. “Pardon the interruption.”
They gasped and spun around to face him.
“Mr. Fletcher!” He was surprised to be addressed by his name since he had only visited Corbyn Place once, when he and Adele spoke with the duke about their intentions to marry.
“Good evening,” he said. “I’ve come to request tea for Lady Adele and the duchess to be served in the drawing room.”
“Yes, sir.” The girl called Blair smacked her hands together to clear flour from them before bustling to the hearth to set the kettle. “Cassia, find Mrs. Taylor and tell her we’ll need the bone china.”
Before the other girl could obey, an older woman with salt and pepper hair, broad shoulders, and a commanding presence swept into the kitchen through another door.
“The inventory is complete,” she announced. Her cap identified her as the cook. When she looked up from the piece of paper in her hands and spotted the mess on the counter, she squawked and snatched a wooden spoon from a crock.
“What are you dotty girls doing?” She jabbed the spoon in Cassia’s direction. “Answer me.”
“W-we are b-baking,” Cassia stuttered as she backed around the counter and out of the cook’s reach.
“We have a guest, Mrs. Taylor.” When Blair nodded toward Marcus standing just inside the threshold, the cook swung her head in his direction, her face draining of color.
“Sir, did you ring for someone?” she asked. “The staff has been aflutter since His Grace took to his bed this evening, but I will find Mr. Quinton at once to send a footman to you.”
Cassia inched closer to the door Mrs. Taylor had entered, looking intent upon making an escape while he served as a distraction.
The cook’s assistant returned to the counter, offering a disarming smile to her boss. “Mr. Fletcher has come about tea for her ladyship and the duchess. I’ve put on the kettle. Cassia is off to speak with Mr. Quinton about which tea set should be used.” Blair made a shooing motion to her friend, and Cassia dashed out the door. “Is there anything more you would have me do, ma’am?”
“Prepare a platter of sandwiches. Lady Adele prefers the cucumber and watercress.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Blair began to bustle around the kitchen, following the cook’s orders.
Mrs. Taylor’s smile appeared strained when she addressed Marcus. “Will that be all, sir?”
“Yes, it seems you have everything well in hand.” He doubted Adele would touch the sandwiches, but since he preferred having a task to complete rather than sitting around awaiting news about Adele’s brother, he suspected the servants at Corbyn Place might feel the same. “I bid you adieu and hope my presence in the kitchen was not too shocking.”
The cook inclined her head. “You are most welcome here, sir. Forgive me if I came across as inhospitable.”
“There is nothing to forgive.” He left the kitchen, walking several paces along the corridor before he remembered he had come from the other direction. Turning on his heel, he stalked back toward the staircase that had led him to the ground floor. The cook’s raised voice spilled into the corridor as she berated her assistant.
“I only wanted to teach Cassia how to prepare the duke’s favorite biscuits,” Blair said. “I thought ye would be pleased if she learned a skill so she could help when the duke hosts a dinner.”
“You stupid, stupid girl! Have you any idea what you’ve done?”
“I was only teaching her to bake.”
“I am talking about this?” As Marcus reached the threshold, he glanced inside to see the cook holding a glass container overhead. “What were you doing with this jar?”
The girl’s brow crinkled in confusion. “Ye told me to add a pinch of salt to the biscuits. To temper the sweetness.”
“This is not salt, you bloody fool.” The cook slammed the container on the counter. “It is rat poison.”
Marcus jerked to a stop outside the kitchen, uncertain he had heard correctly.
“No, it couldn’t be for the rats,” Blair insisted. “The jar was on the shelf—with the flour and sugar. It is salt. That is where the salt should be, with the flour and sugar.”
“Good Lord, how could this happen?” the cook murmured. “You should have asked. I am your superior. You should have come to me about the ingredients.”
“But—”
“You have been adding arsenic to the duke’s biscuits all along, haven’t you?”
“Arsenic?” The poor girl’s thin face turned an alarming shade of green, and she gripped the edge of the counter, sagging against it. “No, I could no’ poison the duke. I would never. Please, believe me.”
The cook grunted. “I cannot say whether you did or not. That is for Mr. Quinton to decide. Come with me.” She grabbed her assistant by the ear and yanked her toward the back door. Blair yelped, pleading for mercy.
Marcus stormed into the kitchen. “Release her.” His voice boomed like a crack of thunder in the cavernous room. Mrs. Taylor startled, releasing her assistant. The girl gingerly cradled her ear as tears streaked down her cheeks.
Marcus glowered at the cook. “Is this how you treat your inferiors, Mrs. Taylor? Is this the treatment you
expect in return from your betters?”
Her mouth opened and closed twice before she found her voice. “If you knew what she had done, you would know she deserves worse.”
“It was an accident,” the girl cried. “I swear on my mama’s grave.”
The cook sneered. “Did you murder her, too?”
Marcus shot a silencing glower toward the cook. “I am aware the duke’s illness is likely from consuming tainted biscuits, and I believe this young woman when she says she inadvertently added arsenic to the dough. She should not be held responsible.”
Blair dissolved into sobs, leaning on the counter. “Thank you, sir. I swear I would never harm the duke or his kin. Thank you.”
He turned on the cook. “You, on the other hand, are in charge of the kitchen. It is your responsibility to manage it well. Your neglect would be inexcusable in my eyes, but deciding what consequences you should face is not my place. I will leave such decisions to the butler and Lady Adele, but you may be certain I will recommend your dismissal. Show me to Mr. Quinton’s office. I would like a word with him now.”
Mrs. Taylor gulped and cast down her eyes. “Yes, sir.”
The butler was in his office when Mrs. Taylor knocked on the door. Marcus explained the situation, then left him to investigate the matter further.
When he returned to the first floor, he encountered Leo marching his mother out the front door and into a waiting carriage. Once the carriage pulled onto the lane, Adele’s youngest brother smoothed his hands over the wrinkles in his clothes and came back inside.
“There was a bit of trouble in the drawing room,” Leo said. “I’ve taken care of the matter, but I think Adele could use your support. I am retiring to my old chambers to await news of Harry. Please, inform Adele that she should call for me if I am needed.”
“Of course.”
Marcus didn’t know what to expect when he re-entered the drawing room, but Adele appeared calmer and more at peace than she had earlier.
“I heard there was a bit of trouble while I was gone,” he said.
“There is always trouble when Millicent is present.” Her slight smile looked weary. “You were gone longer than I expected. I thought you might return with a tray in hand.”
“Tea and sandwiches will be delivered in a moment.” He joined her on the sofa and cradled her hand between his. “I do not know if this is the time to tell you, but I think I would like to know if I were in your position. I discovered how Harry was poisoned.”
Fifteen
Adele had insisted Jefferson go to bed to recover after Dr. Portier completed the procedure. Her brother had argued at first, but amid much yawning, he’d finally agreed to drag himself off to his old bedchamber. As Dr. Portier had explained, Jefferson might feel tired after giving his blood, but a good night’s rest would see him back to normal.
Adele wished Harry’s prognosis was as promising, but at least the doctor had deemed his condition stable—no better, no worse. For everyone’s peace of mind, Dr. Portier and his daughter had decided to stay the night to attend to Harry if he should need their assistance. Now, they were resting in the room adjoining the master’s chamber while Adele and Marcus held vigil.
It was two o’clock, and beyond the window, a hazy moon lorded over the night. The sky was overcast and devoid of stars, just as Corbyn Place seemed devoid of any clear hope. She’d only known this depth of uncertainty and foreboding once—the night Marcus had been taken away from her.
“If you want to rest,” he said in a hushed voice, “I will stay with your brother.”
She turned from the window, smiling softly at him sitting in the chair with her mother’s needlepoint pillow behind his head. She would have sworn he was dozing a moment ago, but his voice wasn’t roughened by sleep.
“I do not want to be separated from you,” she said.
“Then you should come closer.” He held out his arms, and she went to him. Pulling her onto his lap, he enfolded her in his embrace and rested his chin on the top of her head.
“I dislike when you become quiet,” he murmured. “It is a sign you are too deep into your thoughts. Are you still blaming yourself?”
“Maybe.” She nuzzled closer, burying her face against his neck. His cologne had worn off a long time ago, but his own scent was pleasing and familiar. “I hate that I’ve allowed Millicent’s words to haunt me, but I cannot deny that I have failed Harry. I should have kept abreast of what was happening in the kitchen. No, the entire household. The servants are my responsibility, and I did not perform my duties with honor.”
Marcus cradled her face between his bare palms. The warmth of his skin spread through her, leaving her slightly lightheaded. It seemed like a lifetime since they had shared an intimate moment without the risk of being interrupted. She welcomed the comfort of his loving touch and covered his hand with hers.
“You must stop thinking this way,” he said. “Your very existence honors your brother. I’ve never known a more forgiving and loyal person than you, love.”
She wasn’t the saint he seemed to believe she was. Her loyalty to her brother had little to do with moral virtues, and everything to do with gratitude.
She wet her lips. “I know you believe I’ve looked the other way too often with Harry. Perhaps you think I forgave him too easily for what he did to you, but...”
“Shh...” He placed a lingering kiss to her temple. “You do not need to explain,” he murmured.
Yes, she did. “Harry sacrificed everything for me.”
The small tilt of his eyebrow conveyed his doubt. “I am sure you and your brother have sacrificed equally for one another.”
“Harry gave up more than I was ever called to do. If it were not for me, he would have stayed at University. And he never would have lowered himself to take up with Lady Liliwen or tolerated the humiliation of being treated like a pet.”
“Your brother is his own man, Adele. I can assure you that he does as he pleases.”
She smiled and kissed his cheek. “Harry is stubborn, I will concede that much. Let’s speak of something else.”
Explaining now was not necessary. Later—when they were rested, and she was no longer emotionally wrung out like a damp cloth.
A rustling noise came from Harry’s bed. He rolled to his side but didn’t wake.
“I wish he would open his eyes and talk to me,” she said with a sigh. “Do you believe he really has a chance of recovering?”
“Dr. Portier is an honest man, and your brother is strong. If the doctor says there is a chance, you should listen. Hope is never a foolish endeavor.”
“Thank you.” She laid her head on his shoulder. “I needed to hear that.”
He wrapped his arms around her and leaned back in the chair. They sat in silence a long time, just holding one another, their hearts beating in unison. Her eyelids were heavy.
“Harry did what he did to keep us alive,” she murmured. “He is not a bad man.”
He swallowed hard. “Then I owe your brother my gratitude. I cannot imagine a life without you.”
Nor could she without him.
“When he wakes,” she said softly, “I hope you will be able to find it in your heart to forgive him.”
“I already have, love.” He kissed the top of her head. “I already have.”
Something woke Marcus. Perhaps it had been a noise, or maybe it was the pins and needles spreading through his leg from having a warm woman sleeping in his lap. He hugged Adele and nuzzled her soft hair, welcoming the discomfort. In Paris, he would have given anything for it. Instead, he had been plagued by a gnawing loneliness that hounded him most at night.
It was still dark beyond the windowpane. They couldn’t have been asleep long. Perhaps he should carry Adele to her bed, although she might wake in a temper if he took her from her brother’s chambers.
He had lied about having forgiven the duke, but he hoped someday the grudge he harbored would disappear, for his and Adele’s sake. She loved her brot
her. If Marcus wanted to be with her, he had to appear to have forgiven Corbyn, even if nothing her brother could say or do would erase the hardship Marcus had endured. Forgiveness would not restore the inheritance he had lost. And it was bloody hard to forget Corbyn had dragged Adele to the Continent and exposed her to a lifestyle unfit for a lady.
A moan came from her brother’s bed. “Scott,” Corbyn rasped. He was calling for his valet.
Marcus gently shook Adele and answered her brother. “You are not alone.”
Adele jerked awake. She bolted from Marcus’s lap and hurried to her brother’s bedside. “Harry, I am here.”
“Thirsty,” the duke said with a croak.
“I will bring you a drink.” She left his side to pour a glass of water from a crystal pitcher. “Marcus, will you please rouse the doctor?”
The duke blinked several times as if trying to focus his vision. “Fletcher is here?”
“Yes, Jefferson and Leo, too. They are sleeping.” While Adele tended to her brother, Marcus retrieved Dr. Portier.
“You have been ingesting arsenic,” Adele was explaining when Dr. Portier and his daughter entered the chamber. She was seated on the side of his bed. “It appears to be accidental. Apparently, we’ve had rats in the kitchen. Mr. Quinton is questioning the staff further to be certain it wasn’t intentional.”
Her brother smiled weakly. “Happy… to have… stronger constitution… than… a rat.” He needed to take breaths between words.
“Lady Adele,” Dr. Portier said. “May I have a moment to examine His Grace?”
“Of course.” Adele and Marcus retreated to the adjoining chamber. Thankfully, the doctor’s examination was brief, and Adele was called back into the room. She took Marcus’s hand, urging him to follow.
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