The Duke and His Duchess (windham)

by Grace Burrowes

  Mrs. St Just rose slowly. “Fetch your new coat, Devlin, and then come right back here.”

  He pelted off, his footsteps sounding to Esther exactly like Bart’s and Gayle’s… like his brothers’.

  “Your ladyship is wrong about something.”

  Esther regarded the other woman, seeing weariness and sadness but also peace in her gaze. “I think you are making the best decision for your son,” Esther began. “And I will of course write to you, as promised, though I wish you’d agree to write back to him.”

  “A clean break is better. I don’t want him to miss me. That’s not what you’re wrong about.”

  “You will enlighten me?” The defensive note was unbecoming, if understandable.

  “Your husband, his lordship… he loves you. He is not disporting with anybody, though I’ll grant you the man is an accomplished flirt.”

  This, from Percival’s former mistress?

  Esther jerked her mittens out of her pockets. “Mrs. St. Just, a certain sympathy of feeling between us as mothers of small boys is not an invitation for you to presume in any manner—”

  A thin, cold hand touched Esther’s knuckles. “He loves you. He told me so in the king’s English when he came here to ask me about your ailments. He was beside himself with worry, risking all manner of talk just to be seen stabling his horse in the mews. He said you were stubborn, but he said it like he admired you for it, and he did not want to be asking the physicians, because they spread gossip.”

  Esther abruptly sat back down. “Percival was here?”

  “Just the once, and he went no farther than the parlor. He offered help before he left, and I did not… I did not want to take it, but then I realized my pride would not keep Devlin in boots, which was why you found me in your mews.”

  The child came banging back into the parlor. “I’m ready. We can pet the horses, right?”

  “We can pet every one,” Esther said, wondering where the ability to speak had come from. “Your papa can tell you their names.”

  A few beats of silence went by, while Mrs. St. Just hugged her son again. He wiggled free, clearly anxious to make the acquaintance of his papa’s horses.

  As they walked with him to the front hallway, Esther had to ask one more question. “What did you tell him—tell his lordship, I mean?”

  The question apparently required no explanation. “I told him you were worn out from childbed and pregnancy. You needed red meat and rest, also light activity and a time to repair your health before you carried again. I trust you’re feeling somewhat better?”

  “I am.” All the breakfast steaks and misplaced menus made sense, though little else did. “I truly am.”

  She felt better still when she realized that presenting Percival with his son would likely generate a minor scandal. People would think they’d quarreled over the boy—which they well might—and pay less attention to the women Percival trifled with in Esther’s absence.

  * * *

  “You won’t be staying at this house,” Percival assured his daughter. “We will find you a nice accommodation and somebody to look after you who takes the job to heart. You’ll like that.”

  Though Percival would not like it one bit.

  “Why can’t I stay with you?” Little Maggie rode before him through the park like she’d been around horses since birth, which had to be blood telling, because her mother would not have allowed it.

  “I wish you could.” He wished it with his whole heart, else how would he know she was safe from her infernal mother? And yet, if she dwelled under his roof, her mother—her legal custodian—would always know where to find her and be able to snatch her back. “This is a small house, and you would not have your own bedroom.”

  “I don’t need my own bedroom. Burton used to sleep in my room, when I had a fire.”

  “Maggie, you will never want for a fire again, and your soldiers will all have two legs.”

  “I like Colonel George. He was very brave about losing his leg.”

  She chattered on about the colonel perhaps being considered for a knighthood, though he’d rather be a general. Percival turned Comet into the alley that led to the mews, glad in his bones that Esther had already departed for Morelands. With luck, he could have Maggie situated somewhere not too far away by sundown, and then he and Cecily O’Donnell would come to whatever understandings were necessary to keep the girl safe.

  * * *

  “These are very big horses,” Devlin remarked. His tone was casual, but Esther well understood the grip the child kept on her hand as they walked past the team hitched to the traveling coach.

  “They are very nice horses,” she said. “They particularly like little boys, because your brothers come visit them frequently.”

  Small fingers seized around Esther’s hand painfully tight. “My brothers?”

  “You have four, and they are capital fellows, just like you.” Except those four had never known want, never known cold, never been expected to part with their mother’s love with no possible explanation.

  “That’s a pretty horse.” Devlin did not point—the boy had wonderful manners—but his gaze fixed on a chestnut stallion walking up the alley.

  As the clip-clop of shod hooves grew closer, for an instant, the picture before Esther’s eyes did not make sense. She recognized Comet, she recognized Comet’s handsome rider, but she did not… A small child, a red-haired girl, sat before Percival in the saddle. The child was vaguely familiar, and Esther had seen Percival wrap his forearm around his own sons with the very same vigilant protectiveness.

  The horse shuffled to a halt. “Esther. You have not yet departed for Morelands.”

  His tone was so grave.

  The hair on Esther’s nape and arms prickled, and beside her, the boy was unmoving. “And you, my lord, have not been to any committee meetings.”

  A groom came out to take Comet, sparing them conversation while Percival swung down, handed off the reins, and hefted the child out of the saddle. She stood beside Percival, her hand in his, her gaze watchful in the way of children who grew up early.

  “You’re the Viking lady,” she said to Esther.

  “She’s the chocolate lady,” Devlin replied. “She’s my papa’s wife.”

  A thousand questions rose in Esther’s mind while the chill breeze pushed dead leaves across the cobbles. One of the coach horses stomped its great hoof and tossed its head as if impatient with the two adults staring at each other in silence.

  “Percival, who in the world…?”

  “Madam, we will speak privately.”

  Of course they would, because if Percival thought to move his mistress and her offspring into Esther’s house, Esther would need a great deal of privacy to disabuse her husband of such a notion.

  “Devlin, ask the grooms to show you and this girl the stable cat. There’s a kitty with only one eye, and she doesn’t yet have a name.”

  A commotion by the back gate had all adult eyes slewing around as Bart and Gayle came barreling into the alley. “We’re ready to board the ship!” Bart bellowed.

  Gayle came to a halt beside his older brother. “Who are they?” His green eyes narrowed on the girl. “Who’s she?”

  Bart smacked his mittened hands together. “They can be the colonials! We can play Damned Upstart Colonials, and we’ll have French and colonials both. We can slaughter them and take scalps and everything while Mama and Papa kiss each other good-bye!”

  Gayle glanced at his parents as if he knew exactly how long two parents could kiss each other, and grinned. “Come on.” He took Devlin by the hand. “There’s a tiger in the stables, and we can hunt her down for our supper.”

  The red-haired girl fell in with the boys. “I want to be a lion who hunts down the hunters.”

  “You have to be the damned upstart colonial,” Bart said. “I’m General Bart, and that’s Colonel Gayle.”

  “Then I shall be a fierce, damned upstart colonial wolf named Maggie.”

  * *
*

  What did a man say to the wife who’d come upon him riding along the alley with an unexplained by-blow up before him?

  While Percival pondered that mystery, one of the children gave a shriek as a cat skittered around a corner of the stables, and small feet pelted off in a herd.

  Percival stared at his wife, who stared back at him in visible consternation. He did not know what to say to her, did not know why she’d been in the company of that small dark-haired…

  Images of the same child, warily clutching another woman’s skirts, barreled into Percival’s mind. He felt the impact physically, a spinning sensation that whirled through his body and changed everything in the blink of an eye.

  Changed everything again.

  There were two of them. Two small children who’d not known their father’s love or protection. His knees threatened to buckle, and still he did not know what to say.

  “Percival?”

  Esther spoke his name in dread, which he could not abide. He held out a hand to her. “Esther, please listen. Please, please listen.”

  She aimed a puzzled frown at his outstretched hand, as if she did not comprehend what she beheld.

  “Esther, you must listen to me.” Or he’d shoot Cecily Donnelly before witnesses then shoot himself. “I did not want for you to be hurt. You must believe that.”

  Bart’s voice pierced the cold around them. “We’ve got her! Blast, you let her go!” The coach horses shifted in their harnesses and still, Esther merely regarded him.

  “I think it possible I am not hurt after all. Who is the little red-haired girl, Percival?”

  “My daughter and Cecily O’Donnell’s—may God have mercy upon me. I became aware of the child—I met her—only a few days past. Her name is Maggie, and she’s very bright.”

  Perhaps he shouldn’t have added that last. Percival let his hand fall to his side, and yet still, he held out hope that Esther might eventually forgive him. He knew from her expression that she was thinking, and that had to be encouraging.

  She worried her lower lip while Percival uttered prayers more fervent than any he’d offered up in the Canadian wilderness.

  “You know Devlin is your son?”

  “I do now. His mother said nothing to me.”

  “She said a great deal to me, most of which I had to agree with.”

  From the barn, a girl’s voice called out, “She’s coming around the saddle room! Run, you lot!”

  “Esther, may we continue this discussion where we have a measure of privacy?”

  “Yes.” She strode across the alley and took his arm. “We had best. Come sit with me in the garden.”

  His first thought was that a garden in winter was a depressing place, all dead flowers and bare trees. When Esther had him situated on a cold, hard bench, it occurred to Percival that here, while his marriage died a painful, civilized death, helpful servants would not intrude to ask if he wanted a bloody tray of perishing tea.

  Esther took his hand. “Tell me about Mrs. O’Donnell, Percival, but be warned, I am not prepared to be reasonable where she is concerned.”

  Where to start? “First, you must know I loathe the woman. Second, you should also know I went to the theater with her last night.”

  Esther slipped her fingers free of his. Percival grabbed her hand right back and held it shamelessly tight.

  “Husband, I do not understand you. You sport about before all of Polite Society with a woman you loathe, while the wife you profess to love is sent out into the countryside. You are generally very direct, Percival. You will have to explain this apparent contradiction to me.”

  In her exaggerated civility, Percival realized that Esther was nowhere near as composed as she wanted him to think—a fortifying thought.

  “Mrs. O’Donnell threatened the girl, threatened to make a bad situation worse. If I lent the woman my escort, she would spare the child and allow matters to go forth as if we maintained a cordial liaison. If I refused her my attentions, she’d stir the scandal broth at every turn and ensure the child—my own daughter—had no chance at a decent life. I needed time to make provisions for Maggie and placated that woman accordingly.”

  Esther was silent for long moments, but she at least let Percival keep possession of her hand. “Vile woman. You must teach me some curses so I might better express my sentiments toward her when I am private with you.”

  His wife contemplated being private with him. The reprieve of that revelation was vast. Even so, Percival did not relax his grip on her hand. “I’ll teach you every curse I know. Tell me about the boy.”

  This question seemed to relieve Percival’s wife. She smoothed her skirts with her free hand, relaxing in a way that communicated itself mostly where they held hands. “He has your love of horses, very pretty manners, and he does not know he won’t see his mother for some time. I thought you would be wroth with me for not consulting you, but I can see you had your hands full with other matters.”

  Percival brought her knuckles to his lips, and again did not know what to say. When he’d been busy skirmishing with the enemy and taking a prisoner, his staunchest guard had been protecting his flank.

  Never had a man been so grateful to misperceive a situation.

  The gate scraped open behind them, and the senior groom shuffled a few steps into the garden, hat in hand.

  “Beggin’ milord’s pardon, but is we to unhitch the traveling coach?”

  * * *

  Esther regarded her husband, waiting on his reply. Percival might well send her packing, might well sweep the children away from Society’s notice until the gossip died down—which would happen only after several eternities.

  “Unhitch the team,” Percival said. “We won’t be needing the traveling coach for some time. Is the cat still in one piece?”

  The groom’s lips twitched. “Grimalkin be in the straw mow, that racket be the children all burrowing after. The mice is laughing fit to kill.” He left them alone, closing the gate behind him.

  There were four children in that straw mow, and two more in the nursery, and they were all her husband’s progeny. The notion was dizzying, so dizzying, Esther was grateful to hold her husband’s hand.

  “Esther, there is more we should discuss.”

  She peered over at him, because he’d spoken carefully, with a studied calm that presaged bad news. “Six children is rather a lot, Percival. Are there more?”

  She hadn’t been joking, but he smiled at her, a smile of such tenderness that Esther’s insides stopped hopping about like a collection of March hares, for no man smiling like that could be hiding any further secrets.

  “I have only six children that I know of, unless you’re carrying. I was hoping to find decent quarters for Maggie before her mother comes, making a great drama on our doorstep, for I seized Maggie from her mother’s house and didn’t exactly ask permission first.”

  He sounded hesitant, not quite sure of his strategy, when it had been the only reasonable course. “You kidnapped her.” Esther patted his knuckles with her free hand. “Of course you did, because the child was her mother’s greatest source of leverage. I do not see that you had a prudent alternative, it being beyond bad form for a mother to use a child like that.”

  He studied their joined hands, his expression so serious as to emphasize a resemblance to his father. “I don’t see what prudence has to do with our situation, my lady. Had I been prudent, none of this would have occurred.”

  He leaned back against the garden wall and stretched out his long legs before him. Though Percival didn’t turn loose of her hand, in some way his posture suggested he was abandoning his wife so he could wallow in his guilt and misgivings.

  They had no time for male histrionics if Mrs. O’Donnell was maneuvering her cannon into place, and there was no point to Percival’s dramatics, either. “Listen, Percival Windham, and tell me what you hear.”

  He closed his eyes. “I hear altogether too many small children making a lot of rumpus over one
sorry feline.”

  “Those children are laughing. They are playing together without a single toy between them, and they are having great good fun. They met each other a few minutes ago, and already they know how to go on as a family. We must take our example from them and make a certain cat sorry she ever thought to go hunting on our turf.”

  * * *

  “Nobody prosecutes warrants for prostitution.”

  Cecily’s attempt at disdain was undermined by the quaver in her voice as she stared at the document Percival had tossed onto the table before her. If the woman had any sense, she’d be more terrified than angry, but then, she’d never demonstrated appreciable common sense.

  “Madam, I vow to you that I will see this warrant prosecuted, and have affidavits from a dozen witnesses of good birth to ensure the charges result in a conviction. I will also bring suit for slander if you suggest to a soul that a single, casual evening in a public theater box was indicative of any renewed association between us.”

  Cecily flicked the document aside. “You kidnapped my daughter. I am the child’s legal custodian, and you’ve taken her unlawfully from my loving care. Perhaps you aren’t even her father.”

  “In your loving care, she hasn’t a single proper toy. She hasn’t been inoculated for smallpox, her feet are covered with blisters because she outgrew her only boots ages ago. And I am very certain she is my daughter, thanks to the documents you so kindly provided me.”

  Something smug in his tone must have given him away, because Cecily rose from her artful pose on the green sofa and stalked over to her escritoire. She rifled the drawers and came up glowering.

  Which purely delighted Percival. On his last raid into enemy territory, he’d made one stop before he and Maggie had left the premises, and that detail, that one small detail, justified years spent shivering on reconnaissance in the Canadian wilderness.

  “You’ve stolen the documents, my lord. Shall I have you arrested for that?”

  Percival settled his elbow a little more comfortably on her mantel and noted one of the green bows on Cecily’s towering wig was coming undone. “By all means. You’ll want your witnesses to lay information, provided you can find any who will malign a duke’s son with their perjury. You procured the documents for me at my specific request, as the signatories on the documents would attest.”