Another shock. Clearly, there were things in Eustace’s past his father had not seen fit to share. Then again, he’d been away—first Eaton, then Cambridge… Hell. There was no reason for self-deception. He’d kept away after his mother’s death.
He studied the doctor. He’d asked Harrison to look into Eustace’s past but had never considered Wynterhill could hold keys to some of Eustace’s secrets.
“Lord Eustace,” he said slowly, “has returned. A miracle, one might say.”
The doctor’s gaze flew to his. He knew that gaze, knew there was something the doctor wanted to say, but would not.
“Would you care to elaborate on the nature of Eustace’s illness?”
The doctor visibly swallowed. “My father, I think, could best speak to that question.”
Wynchester nodded, acknowledging the doctor’s politic maneuver. “Would you please extend my invitation to him?”
“I will,” the doctor replied. “Just as soon as he returns from Bath.”
“Very good.”
“And the affidavit?” the doctor asked.
“I will have one delivered to you,” Wynchester replied.
That much, he knew, was the right thing to do. Where Eustace was concerned, he was coming to believe there was more to the story than he understood.
Chapter Ten
The soft knock on her door woke Thea from her light slumber.
“Come in,” she called into the darkness.
The door swung open. Wynchester’s face was bathed in a warm glow cast upward from his lantern.
“Did I wake you?” he asked.
“No,” she lied. She tried to sit up and winced, noting the corresponding look of pain in Wynchester’s features.
“The doctor recommends rest for us both—a week at least.”
“Nonsense.” She sank back into her pillows.
Wynchester placed his lantern on a small stand beside her bed and sat down on the mattress. “Are you bruised?”
“My shin took the brunt. My shoulder aches, but that is all. Thank God for my gloves, else there’d be no skin left on my arms.” She eyed him. “You seem little worse for wear.”
“My headache seems to have run its course,” he confirmed. “Though a bit of ugliness on my hip and thigh remain. All in all, I count us both lucky. Riding, however, is out of the question, a least for a few days.” He lifted her fingers and stroked the back of her hand. “I am afraid further intimate explorations will have to wait.”
“Alas,” Thea said with a weak smile, “so much for my grand plans of seduction.”
His expression turned roguish. “Delayed rather than aborted, I hope.”
“Delayed,” she agreed. “Most certainly not aborted.” She soaked in his scent, letting it ripple through her body as the lantern flame made shadows dance across his features.
“May I…?”
He swallowed in the way he did when a word or phrase was too large for him to utter.
“Stay,” she finished his sentence, not as if she were supplying the word, but as if she were speaking her need. In fact, she was doing both. Her heart panged—sweet pain, the kind produced by a stunning sunset or a perfect flower…a sudden, singular awareness of perfection’s fleeting nature.
“If you insist.” The lopsided smile. He undid his banyan and cast it over a chair.
He slid underneath the coverings. Something within her, something that had become unhitched when the horses bolted, not only settled back into place, but became secure as an iron portcullis. She rested her cheek on his muscle. His fingers spread their warm comfort over her thigh.
“Delayed.” Exhaustion rang in his tone.
“Delayed,” she agreed, with a contented sigh. “I thank you for staying.”
“Tonight, my darling, I would not leave you for the world.”
“And tomorrow?” she asked.
“Tomorrow as well,” he hesitated. “Though I must meet with the steward and you will wish to consult with the housekeeper.”
His habit of framing questions as facts had always infuriated her, but this time she heard the note of uncertainty in his voice, and understood his deeper concern. Do you plan to take your place as mistress of Wynterhill?
Here, in the darkness of her room, absorbing the comfort of his body, she had no other answer but, “Yes.”
For a long, silent moment, the unspoken hung in the air of the darkened room like a scent. There were things yet to be said. Doors to dark places they must fling open—the nursery, the cradle. He sensed it, too, for his breath had become shallow.
She wanted to banish the darkness, she realized. Wanted to begin a new chapter, together.
She gathered her courage.
“The cradle and the linens,” she paused, deciding to make use of his tactic, “we will pack in the afternoon.”
“Very good,” he said, with a small hitch in his voice.
She rubbed her cheek against his muscle. His breath became even and deep. A moment later, he patted her thigh.
She drifted into a deep slumber, having placed her heart in his hands—completely and with as much trust as she had placed her head against his arm.
…
Wynchester woke to a room shadowed in morning-gray, a sense of rightness permeating his being. His headache had vanished, his side still throbbed, but the warm body next to him was all that mattered. Odd, he should be at home in her bed, when he had always preferred the comfort and solace of his own sparse furnishings.
He shifted to his side and brought his lips to her hair. Her skin held a vaguely floral scent. When she woke, would she feel the same rightness? Last night, she’d held him, had asked him to stay. Their close brush with death could have left her bewildered, but he hoped it was more. Already, they were three weeks into her promised summer. How many more did he have?
He lay pondering the enigma who slept quite soundly, despite her wounds. Below the open window, the soft sounds of his stable staff exhorted one another to be quiet. Had the rest of their party arrived? He listened more carefully. No, the grunts and exhortations remained strictly male.
With another kiss to her hair, he slipped from Thea’s side and went to the window. Outside, his battered curricle was being unloaded into the stables. He frowned down into the courtyard. As silently as possible, he slipped into his chamber, quickly and quietly donned simple country breeches, shirt, waistcoat, and boots, and headed down to the stables.
Countway, the stable master, whistled as he approached him just inside the stable doorway.
“Just got the horses settled, and happy, too,” Countway said. “Looks like the pair will come through all right. Right sweetings, they are. I can’t imagine what gave them such a fright. It’s a wonder they weren’t injured when the pole cracked.”
“Dogs,” Wynchester said in a derisive tone. “How did you locate the horses?”
“Got word they’d been seen over by Widow Norton’s place.”
Wynchester frowned. “Did you?”
The stable master nodded. “She’s the one that seen ‘em. Like as not they were her dogs that gave ‘em a scare.”
Wynchester felt a chill of unease.
“Mongrels, they are. Good-for-nothing.” He shook his head. “Not the first time they’ve caused trouble. Hens, geese, the vicar’s vegetable garden…”
“Mrs. Norton keeps dogs?”
“Two. Little, mean and loud. Says she found ‘em in a sack by the river—meant to be drowned. Likely for good reason, I say.”
“And when was this?”
“Oh,” the stable master rocked back on his feet, “last fall, I think.”
Coincidence, of course, that he and his wife had been nearly killed by dogs belonging to the woman who had been Eustace’s Nurse. He glanced up at the stable master, who was gazing at the manor home with a peculiar expression on his features.
“Show me the wreck,” Wynchester said.
Countway nodded and Wynchester followed his stable master into
the barn. His heart slowed as he saw what remained of his curricle. Countway stood back as he checked the joints—no signs of tampering as far as he could tell, but he could not shake the feeling something was off. Curricles, of course, were not the safest of vehicles, but he’d driven this one before and hadn’t found it particularly top-heavy. In fact, it had been easy to maneuver.
“Not my place to say, really,” the stable master said, answering no one.
Wynchester rose from his haunches. “Pardon?”
Countway blinked and shook his head, as if he had not realized he’d spoken aloud.
“If you have a concern,” Wynchester said, “speak.”
Countway’s eyes narrowed. “She was good to Lord Eustace, always ready with a baked treat. And my Betty says her potions are a godsend.”
He catalogued what he could remember about the Widow Norton. Eustace and she had been close—at least before Eustace had left for India. And, as midwife, she’d assisted in caring for Thea in the weeks following the Gordon Riots. But he hadn’t paid close attention to the woman. And, when he was younger, there had been other widows with treats far more compelling than baked goods. “Has the widow been a problem?” Wynchester asked. “I mean, beyond the proverbial dogs in the henhouse.”
Countway shrugged. “Secretive, she is. Coming and going at all hours. Odd for a woman.”
“Not so for a midwife. She is still a midwife, is she not?”
The stable master nodded. “That’s her explanation.”
“Has there been anything specific to cause concern?”
Countway shook his head no. “Not natural, is all.”
Wynchester finished his conversation with his stable master in a thoughtful mood and headed back toward the house. Widow Norton was well-known, although perhaps not well-liked. And suspicions that rested on midwife-widows were almost guaranteed in the country. His father had taught him to disregard such rumors.
He’d think someone touched if they told him an old woman was working for his demise in consort with his brother, but it was possible the woman would retain some affection for the boy she had practically raised. Eustace had scoffed when Wynchester had suggested he write the woman of his return, but, he knew from his conversation with the doctor, news of Eustace’s return had reached the village. And was it not strange that her dogs had appeared…and then just as mysteriously disappeared?
Wynchester made a mental note to ask a few more trusted servants for their opinion of Widow Norton.
He stopped at the foot of the entrance stairs, closed his eyes, and inhaled the soft summer scents of Wynterhill. Surely the accident had been just that—an unfortunate mishap. However…
If there had been a purposeful tampering who would benefit? He considered his political associations. As an independent Whig, his willingness to side with the crown on certain issues had offended more than one man in his time in Lords, but no one could besmirch his integrity. While certainly not loved, he believed he was respected. Next, he considered his dependents. His tenants, the dowager, and Thea Marie would, in fact, be worse off if he were gone.
…and then there was Eustace. Who would become, if he were to meet with an unfortunate accident, the next Duke of Wynchester.
…
Thea glanced to the mirror and frowned, puzzling over the problem of how to tighten the ties of her bodice while the bruise on her shoulder prevented her from bending back her arm. Polly would arrive shortly, with the rest of her luggage, but she couldn’t remain in her bedclothes until then. She had to move. She had to be useful. She couldn’t just remain abed absorbing the distantly familiar feeling of the room, imagining she had never…
No. She would not imagine she had never left. That would be wrong—a denial of the trials she had overcome. Trials that had brought her to this moment. The woman who looked back at her within the glass was scarred. On the other hand, she had lived. She had lived on her own and she had survived. And she had the loyalty and love of The Furies—two friends whose worth was greater than gold. She wrapped that small kernel tight and tucked it gut-deep. She would need its talisman today.
Just as she was about to forego the bodice all-together in exchange for a front-tied bodice, a rosy-cheeked Polly burst in…and then instantly froze.
“I should have knocked, shouldn’t I?”
“Yes,” Thea said with a smile. “But your timing is divine.”
Polly chattered on excitedly as she helped Thea dress, going on about her stay at the inn, and Wynterhill itself. She’d never seen a house so grand and the staff had been nothing but welcome, even though they had to have seen her condition, she’d grown as big as a Christmas goose.
By the time Thea’s toilette was complete, Thea longed to meet with Mrs. Wheaton—instead of a challenge, after Polly’s effusive chatter, the meeting would now seem a respite. She left Polly in her chamber, picking up clothes and humming a jaunty tune. Such excitement, however, was affecting, and Thea’s heart lifted further when Mrs. Wheaton welcomed her without a hint of censure for her long absence.
They toured the house in companionable cheer, with Mrs. Wheaton pointing out small housekeeping matters she had been disinclined to bring to the duke’s attention, and Thea responding with suggestions of—as Mrs. Wheaton later described them to Mr. Bates—most thoughtful economy.
They ended their tour in the gallery, now empty of the portraits that had once graced the walls. The room had not been re-papered since the paintings’ removal, and ghost shadows marked the Worthington ancestors’ former places. Thea’s steps echoed on the floor as she walked the length of the gallery and back.
“What redecoration direction did the duke provide?”
Mrs. Wheaton wrung her hands. “His Grace left no direction at all.”
No censure had been implied, but Thea felt censure’s weight nonetheless. She’d never considered their estrangement’s effects beyond those of personal concern. Truth was, the whole duchy had been cast into a netherworld—and not just because of the uncertainty of succession. Footmen and staff relied, in part, on vails paid by visitors. An estranged duke had no hostess to entertain.
She remembered Wynchester’s words, when she’d asked of Wynterhill, “I have gone, but I always find I cannot stay.”
She forced herself to brighten. “Later in the week, we’ll go to the attics and see what we can find. Surely there’s a piece or two that can brighten the room until new paper can be ordered.”
Mrs. Wheaton smiled. “Aren’t you a gift?”
She cast Wheaton a sideways glance. She could not reconcile the older woman’s warmth with the traditional Worthington demeanor.
She spoke the obvious. “Mrs. Wheaton, you were employed as housekeeper when His Grace and I married.”
“Oh yes,” Wheaton said, her easy smile broadening. “Such a happy event, indeed!”
Indeed. “Had you been long with the Worthingtons?” Just the fact she did not know was odd enough in itself.
Her smile wavered. “I came on just after the prior Duke married.” She twisted her hands. “The second time, that is. Some left, you see…” Her voice trailed.
“Ah,” Thea said. “The dowager was a scandal.”
“There was that,” Mrs. Wheaton’s voice hovered as if she were deciding whether or not to end her sentence.
“Might you have tea?” Thea asked, following a brief silence. “I am much recovered, but the house is large, and a spot would do me well.”
Mrs. Wheaton colored as she curtseyed. “Oh I am sorry, Your Grace. Here I am, babbling on while you’re still healing.”
Clearly, the housekeeper had no idea Thea wanted to encourage babbling.
“You go on up,” Mrs. Wheaton continued, “and I will have a hot pot sent ‘round promptly.”
“I was hoping,” Thea hesitated, “we might enjoy a cup together—in the kitchen, perhaps?”
Mrs. Wheaton’s eyes brightened. “Kitchen’s quite busy, but I’d be honored to receive you in my rooms.”
Within minutes they had settled down in Wheaton’s private parlor—cozy enough, though certainly small—and Thea was sipping hot, though weak tea, no doubt brewed from seconds.
Wheaton met her gaze across the table. “I don’t know as I’ll have answers, but if you have questions, Your Grace, I will do my best.”
Well, then. “Could you tell me how you came to Wynterhill?”
Wheaton gave a short history—Wynchester’s mother died after a long, consumptive illness—that much, Thea knew. The fourth Duke had barely completed his year of mourning when he wed his long-time mistress. On that event, the former housekeeper had given her notice.
“But the circumstance did not offend you,” Thea supplied.
“No, Your Grace,” she said, all astonishment. “Who am I to question a duke?”
Who are any of us, Thea mused, to question love?
Mrs. Wheaton continued her take. The present duke, of course, had returned to school on his mother’s death, and was an infrequent visitor thereafter. Eustace’s health and temperament kept him home, under the care of his long-time nurse. The doctor’s visits, which Wheaton understood had been frequent when the duchess lived, continued to be so—only now Eustace was the patient.
“I am sorry, Mrs. Wheaton, but did you say his health and temperament?”
“He was always correct with me,” Mrs. Wheaton said hastily. “But there were outstanding incidents, skirmishes with local boys,” her eyes flashed, “and such.”
“I see,” Thea said, though she did not. She’d always believed that she was the only one to whom Eustace had shown his colors. Most of her acquaintance found him charming in the extreme.
“Might you remember details?”
“I’m afraid I do not.” Wheaton pursed her lips, signaling the conversation was at an end.
They finished their tea, on more amenable topics. As Thea rose to leave, Mrs. Wheaton conveyed heartfelt gladness that the duchess had returned.
“You’ve become quite a fine lady,” she said, “As I always knew you would.”
Thea gave her as warm a smile as she could, and thanked her for the tea.
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