“No,” she said firmly. “I won’t wait. My parents have agreed to let me go to school in Paris. I shall probably be there for a long time.”
“So?” Jeremy shrugged. “I’m joining the army. I shall probably be gone some time, too.”
Maggie nearly came out from behind the protection offered by her chair, she was so surprised. “Really, Jeremy?” she cried, delighted for him. “The army? How exciting! I’m sure you’ll look very dashing in uniform. Do you think you’ll get to go to India, and meet a maharajah, like in our game?”
“Yes,” Jeremy said impatiently. “So, will you wait for me, Mags?”
The smile left her face. “Oh, Jerry, no. Really, we’d better not. Who can tell what might happen, given a few years’ time? It’s possible I shall never marry at all, if I’m able to make a living selling my portraits. Your aunt thinks I might be able to—”
“Never marry at all?” Jeremy echoed disbelievingly. Blast Pegeen for putting such a wretched idea in the girl’s head! While the thought of Maggie never marrying at all was at least preferable to the thought of her marrying someone other than himself, he nevertheless couldn’t imagine her going through her whole life as celibate as a nun. No woman who looked as she did could. It simply went against nature. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “Of course you’ll marry. Say it won’t be anyone but me, and I’ll go.”
“Jerry, really, think about it.” Maggie realized that somebody had to say it. If he wouldn’t, she would. “I wouldn’t make a very good duchess. I certainly don’t look like one, and all I’m interested in doing, ever, is painting. I wouldn’t be any good at duchessy sorts of things. You know, going to balls and opening harvest festivals down at the vicarage and things like that. I can’t make small talk, and I always end up saying the wrong thing.” She saw Jeremy inhale, as if to refute this, but she hurried on, not letting him interrupt. “And I’m not in the least domestic! I don’t know what’s the right kind of wine to serve with duck, and I always end up using the fish fork with the vegetables. Why, I can’t even stand wearing my hair up! The pins always feel like they’re jabbing into my scalp. I just wouldn’t do, Jerry. You’re better off finding someone else.”
But even as she said it, Maggie realized that the thought of Jeremy with any woman at all filled her with a sort of sickening feeling, as if she’d been kicked in the stomach by a horse.
“No,” Jeremy said. “That isn’t it.” He crossed the room until he was standing before the chair, and leaned forward to peer at Maggie’s face. “You’re lying again. Your nostrils are flared. What’s the real reason you won’t marry me?” Maggie started backing away the minute he placed a knee on the seat cushion, but Jeremy reached across the chair back and snatched her by the wrist, to keep her from retreating farther. “Christ,” he said wonderingly, as he felt her pulse leap beneath his fingers. “You really are afraid of me! Why?”
Maggie shook her head. “I’m not afraid of you,” she said with a shaky laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You are. And you’ll be telling me why, my fine girl, or I’ll still be here in the morning when Hill comes back. We’ll see how Sir Arthur feels about sending you to Paris then.”
Maggie inhaled sharply. “That’s … that’s blackmail!”
“It isn’t,” Jeremy said. “It’s coercion, but the two are fairly similar, so the error’s understandable. Now, are you going to tell me, or am I going to have to make myself comfortable in this lovely chair for the rest of the evening?”
Maggie took a deep, steadying breath. “It’s just that …” Lord, how was she going to be able to explain this, without sounding a fool? Maybe if she didn’t look at him. Lowering her eyes to the floor, Maggie said haltingly, “It’s just that when you … touch me, like you do, all I can think about is how much I want you to touch me … in other places. And I know those aren’t proper thoughts for a lady to have! And then I start feeling frightened that I’m not a lady at all, and that I won’t be able to say no, and things will go too far, and I’ll end up in a convent, just like my sister Anne always said, because I’m entirely too carnal by nature … .”
This was so far from what Jeremy had been expecting her to say that for a moment he was silent, absolutely staggered by her confession. Then he grasped her uninjured hand and, bringing it to his lips, said eagerly, between kisses, “Darling, don’t you see? That just proves that you do like me a little. Now you’ve simply got to marry me—”
“No!” Maggie wrenched her hand from his fingers. “It doesn’t prove anything of the kind! All it proves is that I go all melty inside when a man kisses me. I don’t know if it’s just you, or any man, because—”
“Because I’m the only man who’s ever kissed you,” Jeremy finished for her, bitterly.
“Well,” Maggie said, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “Yes. I’m sorry. But yes.”
It wasn’t that he blamed her, really. It wasn’t her fault. But he couldn’t help feeling bitter about a lot of things—the difference in their ages, for one; her sheltered upbringing, for another. Not that he wanted her to go about kissing other men, to find out if there was anything special about her reaction to him. But it looked like such an experiment was going to be necessary. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to be able to stick around to watch it. Not without wanting to throttle the neck of each and every man with whom she came into contact.
Sinking back into the armchair with a sigh, Jeremy raised a hand to his head. The headache Maggie had lied to her maid about seemed suddenly to be plaguing him.
Maggie, watching him from the end of her bed, where she’d perched a little warily, said, “I’m sorry, Jerry.”
“You said that already.”
“Well, it’s the truth. I am sorry. But you asked—”
“I know I asked,” Jeremy interrupted. “I am only too well aware of the fact that I asked.” Suddenly very much craving whisky, Jeremy gripped the arms of the pink satin chair and pushed himself up. “Well, Mags, you win. I’m going now.”
“Oh.” Maggie stood up, feeling a little disappointed. She didn’t know what it was she’d said that had depressed Jeremy so thoroughly. Now it looked as if there wouldn’t be any more marriage proposals—or kisses—forthcoming. While part of her was relieved, another part was sad.
Heading toward the French doors through which he’d come, Jeremy turned just once in her direction. “Promise me one thing, though, will you, Mags?”
She crossed the room to stand beside him, rather like a hostess showing a guest to the door after afternoon tea. “Certainly. If I can.”
“I think you can. It’s just a little thing. I’ll be going away for a while, but Aunt Pegeen will always know where to find me. If you should happen to … find out whether or not it’s just me, or men in general, would you send me a line? Nothing elaborate. Just a simple ‘Yes, it’s you,’ or ‘No, it’s not’ will suffice. Do you think you could promise to do that for me? For old times’ sake?”
Maggie nodded hesitantly. “All right, Jerry.”
“Good girl.” He leaned down and gave her a brotherly kiss on the cheek before stepping out onto the terrace. “Good-bye, then.”
It was a warm night. Maggie stood in the open doorway and watched as Jeremy swung a leg over the terrace wall and started to climb down the ivy to the lawn below. “Jerry?” she called after him.
He looked at her. “Yes?”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
He smiled, a bit lopsidedly. “I don’t know. To the devil, I suppose.”
“Oh,” Maggie said. “Well, give him my regards.”
The smile vanished. “I will,” Jeremy said, and then he was gone.
Part Two
Chapter 9
LONDON, FEBRUARY 1876
A butler in a household like that belonging to the Duke of Rawlings could expect to perform many duties. There were the common tasks associated with butlering, of course, including the hiring, firing, and supervision of the lesser
household staff. There was the wine cellar to keep stocked and well tended, the silver to lock up at night, the announcement of callers, and even the newspapers to iron in the morning, if they arrived with the ink still tacky. When the master of the house was at home—in this case the duke’s uncle, Lord Edward—there were always peculiar duties in addition to the normal ones, such as the tracking down of a dozen perfect roses in the dead of winter to be laid at Lady Edward’s place at the breakfast table, or, as occasionally happened while Parliament was in session, the random death threat to be reported to the local magistrate.
But it was extremely rare, despite the odd hours kept by Lord and Lady Edward during the height of the season, for the household butler to be wakened from a dead sleep at five o’clock in the morning by the ringing of the front doorbell. Usually, a footman could be counted on to stumble downstairs and answer the summons. But as Lord and Lady Edward had not yet arrived from the country—though they were expected any day—and the footmen had gone out with their mates for the night to celebrate an impending nuptial, the only male within the Rawlings town house that night was Evers. And the last thing Evers wanted to do was haul his fifty-odd-year-old carcass out of his cozy bed, pad down four flights of stairs, and open the door to what could only, at this hour of the night, be bad news.
For a while Evers lay with a pillow over his head, hoping the strange caller would go away, thinking no one home. But whoever was ringing the bell evidently knew someone would answer eventually, because he went right on ringing it. Knowing that if he allowed this sort of behavior to go on much longer, the bell would wake the females staying in the house, who undoubtedly would react with typical feminine hysteria to this nocturnal visitation, Evers finally threw back his warm covers and, shivering, donned his dressing gown, slippers, and nightcap, and, with all the speed that his age and infirmity allowed, he started the long journey down from the fourth floor of the five-story house.
It took him approximately ten minutes to reach the door. During that time, the caller, whoever he was, continued to ring the bell, but made a sort of game out of it, ringing it twice, and then stopping, ringing it once again, and then four times, quickly. The pattern varied, but the message was clear: Answer the door. It’s cold out here.
“Coming,” Evers called, in a creaky, sleep-roughened voice, when he finally shuffled into the marble foyer. If it was cold outside, it was just as cold inside that unheated entranceway. Evers thought longingly of his hot-water bottle, which had undoubtedly gone tepid by now. “I’m coming. Blessed Jesus, stop ringing that bell. I’m coming!”
But when Evers finally managed to work all the locks on the door and fling it open, the man standing on the front stoop was neither the night watchman, as he’d expected, nor the dairy man, mistaking the front door for the one marked Staff. The man who stood out in the thick yellow fog that inevitably enveloped London in winter was a stranger to Evers, but a gentleman, one could see at a glance. Swathed in greatcoat, fur hat, woolen muffler, and leather gloves, the man might not have been recognizable to his own mother. As it was, Evers saw only a long nose, which might once have been aquiline but had apparently been broken and badly reset, and a pair of rather startlingly light eyes, set back in a tanned, slightly yellowish face.
“Yes?” Evers inquired. He was already starting to shiver in the frigid morning air. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Evers?” The man’s voice was muffled by all the scarves he wore, but the voice was cultured and deep, the voice of an Englishman, despite the yellow skin.
“Yes. I’m Evers,” the butler said. “Who might you be?”
“But you’re not Samuel Evers,” the man said.
“Of course not. I’m his grandson, Jacob. Samuel Evers has been dead these past four years. He worked at the manor house, in Yorkshire, where my father, John Evers, buttles now. Who might you be, sir, that you knew my grandfather?”
“Don’t you recognize me, Evers?” the gentleman inquired, a hint of amusement in his deep voice.
Evers squinted out into the fog. The bitter cold had already sent his knees knocking, and was starting to seep through the brocade of his dressing gown. The gentleman on the doorstep, however, did not look in the least bit cold.
“I can’t rightly say,” Evers said, his teeth beginning to chatter. “It’s a bit cold out for guessing games, though, sir.”
“Quite right, Evers,” the stranger said. “And you never were very good at them, anyway.” Lifting a long arm, the man plucked the fur cap from his head, revealing a scalp covered with a riot of longish black curls. The hair, coupled with the silver eyes, caused Evers to inhale, sharply.
“God bless me,” he cried. “Is it really you, Your Grace?”
The Duke of Rawlings threw back his head and laughed. It was a rich sound on the quiet street, a bit startling in its wild abandon. It wasn’t the kind of laughter one typically heard on Park Lane, London. At least, not at five in the morning on a wintry February Wednesday.
“Yes, Evers,” Jeremy said at last, when his laughter had died down a little. “It’s me. Fresh from the Far East, and full of malarial promise. My valet will follow shortly with my trunks, so be on the lookout. Now, have you got a drink for a poor wandering duke? I fear I’ve lost any resistance I might once have possessed against this damned English cold, and I need a whisky so badly, it hurts.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Evers moved hastily out of the way, so that the duke could enter his own house. “I beg your pardon. But we weren’t expecting you. We received no communication that Your Grace had left India … .”
“No, and nor were you to,” Jeremy said. He had crossed the foyer and thrown open the double doors to the drawing room, where he unceremoniously began shedding his many outer layers, letting wrap after wrap fall upon one of the green velvet chaise longues. “I left New Delhi rather suddenly. I doubt the hospital had time for any sort of communiques with the family … .”
Evers had already begun lighting the gas lamps. In a matter of seconds, he had a fairly decent fire going in the ornately carved marble fireplace, as well. “Hospital, Your Grace?”
“Yes,” Jeremy said shortly. “Army hospital. Good as it gets in New Delhi, but then, it doesn’t get that good there. Food, wasn’t bad, I suppose, but there’s a deplorable lack of drinkable liquor in India. I wish someone had warned me.” Eschewing the pair of chaise longues for a green leather armchair closer to the fire, the duke collapsed with a sigh, and stretched his long legs out before him. “God, Evers,” he said, closing his eyes. “It’s good to be home.”
“It’s good to have Your Grace back. Though if I might say so, I shall regret no longer being able to read the newspaper accounts of Your Grace’s heroics overseas. We were all very proud of your bravery, especially the part you played in squelching the rebellion in Jaipur.”
“Oh,” Jeremy said uninterestedly, his eyes still closed. “You heard about that, did you?”
“Heard about it, Your Grace? Why, it was all anybody talked of for weeks. To have been awarded the Medal of Honor by the queen …” Evers’s voice trailed off reverently. Then, seeing that the duke intended to make no reply, the butler cleared his throat and added, “And to have been honored so by the maharajah himself! The Star of Jaipur, from what I understand, is truly one of the wonders of the world … .”
“Hmph,” was all Jeremy had to say about that.
Seeing that he was to get no more information out of the duke along that line, Evers turned to pour the whisky. He had noted with approval that underneath the greatcoat, the duke was dressed in the height of European fashion, despite the fact that he hadn’t set foot in Europe in nearly five years. A charcoal-colored morning coat covered a white shirt and matching waistcoat, while tight-fitting black breeches tapered down into a highly polished pair of Hessian boots. Evers further noted that His Grace’s cravat had the requisite number of knots to it. His valet had not gotten lazy in that hot, barbarous country, anyway.
But there
the butler’s approval ended. For the duke was not looking well. Not looking well at all. The yellowish skin tone which Evers had noticed had not been a result of either the gaslit street lamp or the fog. The duke was clearly malarial. He had either recently gotten over a bout of the illness, or was still in the throes of it. Since surely no man would risk his life traveling with such a deadly disease, Evers assumed the former. But a visit from the surgeon, Mr. Wallace, might be in order. Evers would see to it as soon as the rest of the household woke, and he could send one of the maids out with a missive.
“Ah,” Jeremy said, opening his eyes when Evers cleared his throat and presented him with a piece of cut crystal containing about two fingers of familiar amber liquid. “Evers, my good man, you, like your grandfather before you, are a saint.”
“Hardly, Your Grace,” Evers said, with his family’s customary modesty. “Shall you be staying in London long?”
“As long as it takes,” Jeremy muttered enigmatically into his glass. Tossing back the whisky in one practiced motion, the duke heaved an involuntary shudder, then passed the glass back to the butler, who moved to refill it. Realizing, apparently for the first time, that Evers was dressed in slippers and a robe, Jeremy drawled, “Lord, Evers, what time is it? I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Indeed, Your Grace did catch me somewhat unawares,” Evers said pleasantly. “And the time is twenty past five.”
“In the morning?” Jeremy was so shocked he nearly dropped the glass the butler passed to him. “Good God, man! Why didn’t you say so before? And there I was, ringing that blasted bell. It’s a wonder I didn’t wake everyone in the house.”
“It’s quite all right, Your Grace. At present there is no one staying in the house, with the exception of—”
Portrait of My Heart Page 9
