The Duke Knows Best

by Jane Ashford

  Goggle-eyed, the maid shook her head. “I’ll have to ask his lordship.”

  Miss Saunders sighed and began pulling off her gloves. “I suppose you will.” She untied the strings of her bonnet. “Well? Do so.”

  The maid hurried away. Miss Saunders removed her hat, revealing a wild tumble of glossy brown curls. Then she bit her bottom lip, looking far less sure of herself than she’d sounded, and put it back on. When footsteps approached from the back of the hall, she stood straighter and composed her features.

  “Who the deuce are you?” asked the tall, frowning gentleman who followed the housemaid into the entryway.

  Unquestionably handsome, Jean thought. He had the sort of broad-browed, square-jawed face one saw on the tombs of Crusaders. Sandy hair, blue-gray eyes with dark lashes, which might have been attractive if they hadn’t held a hard glitter. “I am Alice’s cousin,” Jean repeated.

  “Cousin?” He said the word as if it had no obvious meaning.

  “Well, second cousin, but that hardly matters. I’m here for Geoffrey.”

  “For him? He’s four years old.”

  “I’m well aware. As I am also aware that he is being shamefully neglected.”

  * * *

  “I beg your pardon?” Benjamin put ice into his tone. The accusation was outrageous, as was showing up at his home, without any warning, to make it.

  “I don’t think I can grant it to you,” his unwanted visitor replied. “You might try asking your son for forgiveness.”

  She spoke with contempt. The idea was ridiculous, but there was no mistaking her tone. Benjamin examined the intruder in one raking glance. She looked a bit younger than his own age of thirty. Slender, of medium height, with untidy brown hair and dark eyes, and an aquiline nose, she didn’t resemble Alice in the least.

  “I’ve come to take Geoffrey to his grandparents,” she added. “Alice’s parents. He deserves a proper home.”

  “His home is here.”

  “Really? A house where his dead mother’s portrait is kept as some sort of macabre shrine? Where he calls his father ‘the lord’? Where he is shunted aside and ignored?”

  Benjamin felt as if he’d missed a step in the dark. Put that way, Geoffrey’s situation did sound dire. But that wasn’t the whole of the truth! He’d made certain the boy received the best of care. “How do you know anything—”

  “People have sent reports, to let his grandparents know how he’s treated.”

  “What people?” There could be no such people. The house had lost a servant or two in recent years, but there’d been no visitors. He didn’t want visitors, particularly the repellent one who stood before him.

  “I notice you don’t deny that Geoffrey is mistreated,” she replied.

  Rage ripped through Benjamin. “My son is treated splendidly. He is fed and clothed and…and being taught his letters.” Of course he must be, though he was scarcely of an age for schooling. Perhaps he ought to know a bit more about the details of Geoffrey’s existence, Benjamin thought, but that didn’t mean the boy was mistreated.

  Two postilions entered with a valise. “Leave that on the coach,” Benjamin commanded. “Miss…won’t be staying.” He couldn’t remember the dratted girl’s name.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Take it back. I’m only here to fetch Geoffrey.”

  “Never in a thousand years,” said Benjamin.

  “What do you care? You hardly speak to him. They say you can’t bear to look at him.”

  “They. Who the devil are they?”

  “Those with Geoffrey’s best interests at heart. And no sympathy for a cold, neglectful father.”

  “Get out of my house!” he roared.

  Instead, she came closer. “No. I won’t stand by and see a child harmed.”

  “How…how dare you? No one lays a hand on him.” Benjamin was certain of that much, at least. He’d given precise orders about the level of discipline allowed in the nursery.

  “Precisely,” replied his infuriating visitor. “He lives a life devoid of affection or approval. It’s a disgrace.”

  Benjamin found he was too angry to speak.

  “Please go and get Geoffrey,” the intruder said to the hovering maid.

  “No,” Benjamin managed. He found his voice again. “On no account.” His hand swept the air. “Go away,” he added. The maid hurried out—someone who obeyed him, at least. Though Benjamin had no doubt that word was spreading through the house, and the rest of his staff was rushing to listen at keyholes.

  “Would you prefer that I report you to the local magistrate?” his outrageous visitor asked. “That would be Lord Hallerton, would it not? I inquired in advance.”

  She scowled at him, immobile, intolerably offensive. Benjamin clenched his fists at his sides to keep from shaking her. While he was certain that any magistrate in the country would side with him over the fate of his son, he didn’t care to give the neighborhood a scandal. It seemed that spiteful tongues were already wagging. Who were the blasted gossips spreading lies about him to Alice’s parents? The tittle-tattle over this female’s insane accusations would be even worse.

  The two of them stood toe-to-toe, glaring at each other. Her eyes were not simply brown, Benjamin observed. There was a coppery sparkle in their depths. The top of her head was scarcely above his shoulder. He could easily scoop her up and toss her back into the post chaise. The trouble was, he didn’t think she’d stay there. Or, she’d drive off to Hallerton’s place and spread her ludicrous dirt.

  The air crackled with tension. Benjamin could hear his unwanted guest breathing. The postilion, who had put down the valise and was observing the confrontation, eyed him. Would he wade in if Benjamin tried to eject his unwelcome visitor? He had a vision of an escalating brawl raging through his peaceful home; actually, it would be a relief to punch someone.

  Into the charged silence came the sound of another carriage—hoofbeats nearing, slowing; the jingle of a harness; the click of a vehicle’s door opening and closing. What further hell could this be? Benjamin had long ago stopped exchanging visits with his neighbors. None would dare drop in on him.

  When his uncle Arthur strolled through the still-open front door, Benjamin decided he must be dreaming. It was the only explanation. His life was a carefully orchestrated routine, hedged ’round with safeguards. This scattershot of inexplicable incidents was the stuff of nightmares. Now if he could just wake up.

  His uncle stopped on the threshold and surveyed the scene with raised eyebrows. “Hello, Benjamin. And Miss…Saunders, is it not?”

  “You know her?” Benjamin exclaimed.

  “I believe we’ve met at the Phillipsons’ house,” the earl replied.

  The intruder inclined her head in stiff acknowledgment.

  Benjamin could believe it. His lost wife’s parents were a fixture of the haut ton. Entertaining was their obsession. One met everyone in their lavish town house, a positive beehive of hospitality. Indeed, now he came to think of it, he was surprised they’d spared a thought for Geoffrey. Small, grubby boys had no place in their glittering lives. “And do you know why she’s here?” he demanded, reminded of his grievance.

  “How could I?” replied his uncle.

  Too agitated to notice that this wasn’t precisely an answer, Benjamin pointed at the intruder. “She wants to take Geoffrey away from me.”

  “Take him away?”

  “To his grandparents,” Miss Saunders said. “Where he will be loved, and happy. Rather than shunted aside like an unwanted poor relation.”

  Benjamin choked on a surge of intense feelings too jumbled to sort out. “I will not endure any more of these insults. Get out of my house!”

  “No. I will not stand by and see a child hurt,” she retorted.

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Y
ou have no idea—”

  “Perhaps we should go into the parlor,” the older man interrupted, gracefully indicating an adjoining room. “We could sit and discuss matters. Perhaps some refreshment?”

  “No!” Benjamin wasn’t going to offer food and drink to a harpy who accused him of neglecting his son. Nor to a seldom seen relative who betrayed him by siding with the enemy, however illustrious he might be. “There’s nothing to discuss, Uncle Arthur. I can’t imagine why you suggest it. Or why you’re here, in fact. I want both of you out of my home this—”

  “Yaah!” With this bloodcurdling shriek, Geoffrey shot through the door at the back of the entry hall. Clad in only a tattered rag knotted at the waist, his small figure was smeared with red. For a horrified moment, Benjamin thought the swirls were blood. Then he realized it was paint running down the length of his small arms and legs. Shrieking and brandishing a tomahawk, the boy ran at Miss Saunders. He grabbed her skirts with his free hand, leaving red streaks on the cloth, and made chopping motions with the weapon he held. Fending him off, she scooted backward.

  In two long steps, Benjamin reached his small son, grasped his wrist, and immobilized the tomahawk—real and quite sharp. Benjamin recognized it from a display shelf upstairs.

  Geoffrey jerked and twisted in his grip, his skin slippery with paint. “Let go! I’m a red Indian on the warpath.” He kicked at Benjamin’s shins. As his small feet were bare, it didn’t hurt. His red-gold hair was clotted with paint too, Benjamin noted. There were a couple of feathers—probably chicken—stuck in the mess.

  His son began to climb, as if Benjamin was a tree or a ladder. Paint rubbed off on his breeches, his coat. Because of the tomahawk, Benjamin couldn’t let go of the boy’s wrist. He grabbed for him with his other hand.

  Geoffrey lunged, caught the ball of Benjamin’s thumb between his teeth, and bit down. “Ow!” Benjamin lost his grip. Geoffrey thudded to the floor, frighteningly close to the blade he held. But he was up at once, unscathed. The rag he was wearing fell off. Geoffrey capered about stark naked, waving the tomahawk and whooping. A drop of blood welled from Benjamin’s thumb and dropped onto his waistcoat.

  The immensely dignified Earl of Macklin knelt, bringing his head down to Geoffrey’s level. “Which tribe do you belong to?” he asked him.

  The boy paused to examine Benjamin’s uncle. Benjamin edged around to grab him from behind. But it was no good. Geoffrey spotted the maneuver and raised his weapon.

  Arthur waved him back. “Your ax is from the Algonquian tribe, I believe,” he said to Geoffrey.

  The boy blinked his celestial blue eyes. “You know about red Indians?”

  “Your grandfather was very interested in them. He showed me his collections and told me stories he’d gathered.”

  Benjamin wondered when his father had had an opportunity to share his fascination with artifacts from the Americas with Uncle Arthur. He didn’t remember any such sessions. Perhaps when he was away at school?

  “Grandfather,” repeated Geoffrey. He said the word as if he’d never heard it before. A pang of emotion went through Benjamin. Gritting his teeth, he pulled out his handkerchief and tied it around his bleeding thumb.

  “Your father’s father,” added the earl, nodding at Benjamin.

  Geoffrey turned to look. There was something unsettling in his blue gaze, Benjamin thought. Not accusation precisely; rather a speculation far beyond his years. And nothing at all like the gentle inquiry characteristic of his dead mother.

  A gangling lad in worn clothing erupted from the rear doorway through which Geoffrey had come and skidded to a halt beside the boy. “You said if I reached down the paint, you’d stay in the schoolroom,” the new lad said. “Where’s your clothes?”

  “No,” said Geoffrey. He was holding the tomahawk down at his side as if to conceal it, Benjamin noticed.

  “You gave me your word,” argued the newcomer. He was a dark-haired boy of perhaps fourteen, with hands and feet that promised greater height and sleeves that exposed his wrists. Benjamin had no idea who he was.

  “Didn’t!” declared Geoffrey. “Never said it.” The little ax came up in automatic defense.

  “Where did you get that?” cried the older lad, clearly horrified.

  Geoffrey laughed. He danced in a circle, waving the tomahawk.

  In a move that looked well practiced, the youth stepped forward, snapped out a blanket from under his arm, threw it over Geoffrey, and quickly wrapped him up like an unwieldy package. Picking up the squirming bundle, he attempted a bow. “Beg pardon, your lordship,” he said, backing toward the rear of the house. Muffled shouts of protest mixed with laughter came from the woolen folds. They faded as the door closed behind the young duo.

  Silence fell over the entryway. Benjamin’s uncle stood up. The postilion was staring like a spectator at a peep show. Miss Saunders brushed at the drying paint on her skirts. She looked shaken. “You allow Geoffrey to play with…hatchets,” she accused.

  “That thing was on a shelf ten feet up,” Benjamin said. He was pretty sure that was the spot. “In a locked room. I’m certain it’s locked.” Wasn’t it always? “I’ve no notion how he got it.”

  “Precisely. You know nothing about your own son! Who can tell what other dangers surround him? I’m surprised he hasn’t been killed.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “And was that…rustic youngster your idea of a proper caretaker?”

  Unable to supply any information about this person, and aware that appreciation of his ability to truss up a wriggling miscreant would not be well received, Benjamin ground his teeth.

  “I must take Geoffrey to the Phillipsons at once,” his unwanted visitor added.

  “Drag him into your post chaise and rattle off together?” asked Uncle Arthur amiably.

  Benjamin nearly growled at him. Then he noticed Miss Saunders’s expression. The prospect of sharing a carriage with his naked, paint-smeared, ax-wielding son clearly daunted her. He could almost enjoy that. Indeed, if he hadn’t been defending his home from invasion, he might have laughed at the scene just past. Before taking steps to see that it never recurred, of course.

  “It seems to me that we need a bit of time to consider the situation,” his uncle added. “I know I would appreciate a chance to get acquainted with my great-nephew.” This latter sentiment seemed perfectly sincere.

  Miss Saunders muttered something. The word savage might have been included.

  “I won’t have her in my house!” Benjamin said.

  “I’ve no wish to stay with a monster of selfishness!”

  But in the end, the earl somehow persuaded them. Benjamin was never sure, afterward, how he’d come to agree. Was it simply easier? Had he been that desperate to escape his two unwanted guests and shut himself in the library again? And why had he promised to review his son’s educational program with these near strangers? It was none of their business. And he was not afraid of what he might discover. Absolutely not. Even though he had no idea what it might be. Finally alone again, he sank into his familiar chair and put his head in his hands.

  * * *

  Upstairs, Jean Saunders sat on the bed in her allotted chamber, hands folded in her lap, jaw tight, and contemplated a rescue mission gone seriously awry. Her plan had been simple, efficient. She would swoop in, collect Geoffrey, and be gone. She should be on her way back to London by now. Her cousin Alice’s husband had been portrayed as so deeply sunk in mourning that he didn’t care what happened in his household. Hadn’t he? Where had she gotten that notion? She’d expected to face a drooping, defeated fellow who might well welcome a relief from responsibility, not a gimlet-eyed crusader blazing with outrage. How could people have characterized that…masterful man as broken by grief? His eyes had practically burned through her. He’d pounced like a jungle cat to restrain his rampaging son.

  Jean let out a long—n
ot entirely unappreciative—breath at the memory. Still, the gossip about his lordship’s shameful neglect of Geoffrey was clearly on the mark. The boy was like some sort of wild animal. If he’d landed a blow with that hatchet… Folding her arms across her chest, Jean realized that she’d expected Geoffrey to be a cherubic child, like the smiling illustrations on top of a chocolate box. She’d envisioned him in a little blue suit with a lace collar, dimpled and pink, putting his arms around her neck and softly thanking her for rescuing him. She’d thought to take his little hand and lead him off to happiness. Nothing could be more unlike the reality of a prancing imp painted red, shrieking, and bent on mayhem. The maniacal glee in his eyes!

  She let her arms fall to her sides and sat straighter, gathering her tattered resolution. It wasn’t Geoffrey’s fault that he hadn’t been taught manners, or any vestige of civilized behavior, apparently. That was the point, wasn’t it? He deserved far better. He must be guided and nurtured. She’d come here to save him, and she was going to do so. Hadn’t she’d nagged the Phillipsons half to death to make them offer refuge to their grandson? If Baron Furness found out the whole plan was her idea, and that Geoffrey’s grandparents were far from enthusiastic… Well, he could hardly be angrier than he was now.

  Jean gripped the coverlet with both hands. He’d been furious. Standing up to him had been like confronting a force of nature. Perhaps he cared about his child after all? She’d be glad of that, naturally. Yet he hadn’t been affectionate with Geoffrey. And the boy had bitten him! What sort of bond was that?

  No, Jean was all too familiar with neglectful parents. Geoffrey needed a new home. Probably her host was worried about his reputation, and resented being exposed and thwarted. An old adage floated into Jean’s mind. Like father, like son. Did Geoffrey get his wild ways from his parent? A shiver passed through her. With a grimace, she banished it. She’d vowed never to be afraid again, and one blustering baron wasn’t going to cow her. Still less a four-year-old child.

  The streaks of red paint on her gown caught Jean’s eye. She’d had to promise the Phillipsons that she’d take care of establishing their grandson once he was in London, seeing that he had the proper attendants. They were far too busy to bother with a child. It had seemed a trivial condition at the time, with her righteous indignation in full flood. Jean’s chocolate box vision wavered into her mind again, immediately replaced by the naked, whooping reality. But Geoffrey would improve with gentle guidance and plenty of affection. Wouldn’t he? Quite quickly? Jean had no brothers or sisters. Indeed, she’d never had much to do with children of any stripe. Had she made a mistake?