by Jess Russell
Please God, not Egg! Please God, I don’t want more! This family—this life is enough! It’s enough! Please God, not my Egglet—
****
Rhys struck out, blindly groping for an extra pillow to muffle the incessant hammering inexplicably going on somewhere in the mansion. The hammering continued, only now it was housed deep within his aching brain as well. Still not content, some fiend was throwing gravelly, hot sand behind his eyelids and making his mouth into cotton wool.
What the bloody blazes.
Reaching for another pillow, he connected with something solid. It was Tinsley. Rhys risked another look, only cracking one lid this time. Sure enough his valet was rubbing his nose and attempting to speak.
“Your Grace, I would not have disturbed you, but Monsieur Angelo is expected in twelve minutes.”
Rhys turned his head slowly and deliberately. It did no good; his head felt like a small, crowded room where at least ten blacksmiths with anvils had taken up residence.
He ran his tongue over his teeth. They had grown fur sometime in the night. “What…time…is it?” Tinsley recoiled, his hand covering his now doubly assaulted nose. Rhys’s own eyes watered a bit from the stench of Scotch whiskey.
“It is nearly nine now, Your Grace.”
Rhys was sorely tempted to take up a pistol and shoot his valet and then himself. But Monsieur Angelo’s time was not to be trifled with, not even for a duke. Besides he desperately needed the release of a good bout; after all, this was his betrothal day.
“Get me up and into a cold bath. Slowly, man.”
****
For the second time in as many weeks, Olivia was back in the ducal mansion facing the various instruments of skill and death. However, this reception was nothing like her previous visit. She had not a moment to ascertain any missing weaponry before immediately being ushered into a blue withdrawing room, greeted in the most solicitous manner by Mr. Wilcove himself, and offered tea while His Grace was being found.
After pacing the length of the room several times, she just had convinced herself to sit when the chamber door opened and the duke appeared.
“Mrs. Weston, this is most unexpected. I—”
“I will do it. I will become your mistress.”
Silence.
His eyebrows—both of them—disappeared into his hair which was…disheveled? His coat did not lay flat as if it had been hastily donned and his cravat, while fresh, was carelessly tied. He had not even shaved? My God, was he actually sweating? He looked almost…human.
All these thoughts crammed into Olivia’s head in one instant. She must have caught him in the midst of some vigorous exercise.
He retrieved a handkerchief from a pocket and hastily mopped his brow.
Oh God, had he come from a new lover’s bed? This was unbearable. The burn of a blush flooded her face and she turned away, humiliated.
But she had nowhere to go.
Ironically, the fire had been a small one, or so the turncock of the fire brigade had said, but to Olivia’s mind, it might as well have burnt the whole building to the ground. All their hard work had been utterly lost. The damage from the smoke alone had permeated every swath of silk, every length of muslin, every ribbon and lace—everything. The Barton gowns, which had been carefully packed in silver tissue and boxes, had been trampled and drenched into a filthy pulp.
But that was nothing. Nothing to seeing Egg’s torn and blistered hands. Her cracked and bleeding lips, swollen to twice their size. Nothing to the black mucus she had retched, causing her throat to swell till Olivia wanted to run from the room. Nothing to her red, running eyes that tried to speak for her because she couldn’t…
Olivia’s silly pride had utterly dissolved as she watched black, churning smoke pour out of the upper rooms, praying her Eglantine would come out alive. Yes, she would sell her soul to the Devil if need be. But, as it was, it would be to a gorgeous, wealthy duke.
Squaring her body, she lifted her chin, despite her burning cheeks. “I will be your mistress. That is, if the position is still available.”
“Yes,” he almost shouted. “Yes, Mrs. Weston,” he said again, now quieter, “it is most assuredly available.”
“Good. Well…” How did one do this? “I have some requirements.”
“I am all attention, madam. Shall we sit? Has tea been ordered?” He moved toward the bell pull—
“You misunderstand; I have not a moment to spare. It is Egg—Mrs. Wiggins, my business part—There was a fire—”
The duke started. “A fire?”
But Olivia held up her hand. “Please, I—She is very ill. I cannot lose a moment. I must have a proper doctor—” She broke off in a sob. He moved toward her, and then abruptly stopped and turned to the door. He opened it and shouted for his butler and for a carriage to be readied posthaste.
He turned back into the room, hesitant, as if he was unsure what to do for her. He started to hand her his handkerchief, but seeing it was damp with sweat, thrust it back in his pocket.
He seemed about to speak when his butler appeared.
“Safley, send for Dr. Asher immediately,” the duke said. “He is to present himself as soon as may be at—where is Mrs. Wiggins at present?”
“Our neighbor, Mrs. Isabelle Harton, at number fourteen—”
The duke turned back to Safley. “Yes, number fourteen, Hamley Place. Mrs. Weston and I will leave now and meet the doctor there. Make haste, man.”
The butler bowed and left the room. A small commotion could be heard through the door as various servants were dispatched.
Olivia found her own handkerchief, blew her nose, and took a breath.
“You see, she was laughing and she could not catch—” Olivia pressed her knuckles against her mouth. “She is the only family I have. I cannot lose her.”
“Rest assured, madam, all will be well. Dr. Asher is my own physician and you will not find a more learned man in his field.”
She met his eyes—warm brandy.
“I want to be with her. I must be, till she is better. I want to nurse her. I trust you will give me that time, that consideration, before I take up my—other duties.”
“When we determine what is best for Mrs. Wiggins and when she is on surer ground, it is likely she will need to go to the country. I will send you and her, along with Wilcove and Dr. Asher, to one of my country estates. There Mrs. Wiggins will receive every attention and yes, you will be there to supervise every detail of her recovery. You will be hindered by no one, not by me or anyone. You have my word.”
“Yes, I thank you. May we go now? I have left her with our young seamstress, and I am most anxious to be at her side.”
“Of course, madam.”
He sprang to the door. He seemed relieved to finally have something concrete to do as he spoke with Safley. She stood transfixed, watching him manage everything. He beckoned to her, and she moved toward him.
Egg would be well.
And she would be his.
Chapter Thirteen
That very afternoon the duke moved Olivia and Egg to a small house on Bennett Street, not far from Bedford Square.
She and Egg were like two small rocks in the midst of a whirling stream of activity; everything happened around them. They had been given lovely bedchambers with a connecting door, meals had been delivered at all hours of the day and night—mostly left untouched—and Dr. Asher had been at least twice a day to check on his patient.
The duke’s people had even combed through the burned shop and apartment above for any item that could be salvaged. Unfortunately, those items had filled one small trunk, but they had included a silver-backed brush and hand mirror that had belonged to Egg’s mother, Olivia’s miniature of Wes, and the tiny violin he had bought for their child. The instrument had been only slightly scorched, but the bow was ruined, snapped under a large boot. These precious keepsakes were now lying next to the women’s respective beds. The rest of the things had been packed up and stored in an unused bedchamber.<
br />
“I assure you, Mrs. Weston,” said Doctor Asher when he came to examine Egg a week into their stay, “I am quite certain His Grace is very sensible of your gratitude, but I am even more certain he would be uncomfortable with too much praise. Besides”—he chuckled—“you would have to catch him. He is scarcely within these walls and when he is, he only dashes about issuing orders and looking quite grave.”
****
A soft knock jerked Olivia to her feet, her book slipping from her lap to land with a thud on the carpet.
“Madam.” It was Albert, the footman. “His Grace wonders if you might spare a moment to meet him in the drawing room.”
Her heart bumped in her chest; she would see him. Would he keep his promise? Did she want him too? Suddenly the thought of being held in his strong arms, cradled against his chest, seemed like bliss.
“Yes,” she said, too strongly. She ducked her head and put a hand to her hair. “I will be only a minute.” Albert bowed and left.
She ran to the small vanity, fumbling for stray pins in her rumpled hair, and sat.
Worse than she expected. Dark circles shadowed her too-large eyes. Her lips were chapped, her skin too pale except for, dear God, a red spot just to the right of her nose. Hideous. She shut her eyelids against the threatening fullness. She had imagined being so calm, so composed when she met him again. She shook her head, opened her eyes, and met the enemy reflected in the mirror. Then she attacked.
Upon entering the drawing room, her heart seemed to drop several inches in her breast, and her stomach heaved up in sympathy. Even from across the room, she could see a difference in him. It was not evident in his manner of dress, which was still soberly impeccable; it was more in his eyes—an almost haunted look. A table between them was the only thing that saved her from rushing to his side and making a fool of herself. She caught its edge and her wits as well. He looked so very tired.
But the duke was not alone. He had been in deep conversation with an unknown gentleman. They had abruptly broken off their talk when she had entered.
“Ah, Mrs. Weston. May I present Sir Richard Ford?” Olivia dragged her gaze from the duke. The man wore a telltale red waist coat signaling him as a Robin Red Breast, the mounted division of Bow Street. “Sir Richard is head of the Runners.”
The tea tray had barely arrived when Sir Richard launched into a barrage of questions. Questions she had already answered on a half dozen other occasions. Yes, Egg had sworn she had doused the fire. No, their neighbor—yes, Isabelle Harton—could not say for absolute certain whether the person she had seen leaving the building was male or female. Yes, it had been a long, dark cloak with a hood. No, Hazel could not produce the paper that had called her away. No, she could think of no one who would want to do them harm.
She felt like a mouse among falcons, as they circled about her.
Finally, worn down, she blurted, “There was a black carriage that sometimes seemed to be following me.” Her gaze flicked to the duke.
He halted, shock on his face. Olivia looked away but irritation pricked her feelings of guilt. After all, she had no reason to feel awkward. She pressed on. “It stopped just down the street from our shop on several occasions.”
“And you have no idea who it might have belonged to, Mrs. Weston?” Sir Richard, followed her sight line till his gaze rested on the duke as well. She hesitated.
“Mrs. Weston,” the duke said, “you must tell us anything you deem pertinent.”
“Very well.” She sat up straighter. “Actually, I thought it might have belonged to you, Your Grace.”
He gave a start but recovered quickly.
“When did you begin to notice this carriage, Mrs. Weston?” said Sir Richard.
“Shortly after the Parkington Ball—about seven days ago.” She looked at the duke.
His frown cleared, and his shoulders dropped. “I assure you, it was not mine.”
Sir Richard did not pursue the line of questioning, and after a few more questions, he took his leave.
“Why did you not mention this carriage before, Mrs. Weston?” The duke’s question came on the heels of the door closing. “Were there no distinguishing details? No outriders? No special livery?” He was like a teakettle at full boil—with the lid firmly in place.
“I did not think any of it would signify as I thought the carriage yours.”
A strange look came over his face. He looked…guilty.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come,” he said, moving to the door.
“Your Grace,” Albert said, bowing deeply, “this just came by special post.”
Roydan took the note and popped the seal, scanned it, and then crushed it within his hand. He turned to her, hiding the note behind his back like a naughty school boy. He seemed…lost, unsure, as if he wanted to say more. But after a moment of awkward silence, he bowed briefly, “Your pardon, madam, I must leave you.”
She curtsied, giving up any notion of thanks.
Olivia watched from the window, hidden behind the heavy brocade curtain, as he mounted his horse. Just as she thought to lose him in the dusky gloom, a watchman lit the street lamp. In the sudden island of light, she thought she saw him turn back to the house—to her window. Instinctively she drew back, her heart knocking against her ribs. She waited a moment and then pressed her face to the glass. But he had disappeared into the rising fog.
What went on behind that ducal facade? He was so very reserved, and from an outsider’s vantage point, he appeared almost disdainful but she was finding that characterization would be wrong. It would be too hasty. Could he be…shy? No, that was not quite right. She grappled to find the right word—untried? Yes, somehow almost—virginal. It seemed impossible for a man of his years and a duke as well, but deep in her heart she knew it was true. And that truth might very well slay her.
****
“My dear Rhys, I am so glad you came to call.”
Rhys took in Daria’s dangling curls, peignoir, and a feathered slipper that hung from one of her stockinged feet. She had arranged herself artfully on a chaise, the light falling dramatically over half her face and décolletage. She had lost some flesh in the last weeks, looking more like the Daria of old—the pink shades on the lamps no doubt helped the illusion. Daria was always clever at setting the perfect scene.
“I do not have time for your games, Daria.” He went to the window and jerked open the heavy curtains. “What is this about Dee Gooden? What have you to do with her?”
She blinked, turning away from the light. “Me? Nothing.”
“Then you waste my time.” He made for the door.
“For any other man I would say she must be some trollop who is making trouble, but we both know your very limited palate when it comes to the fair sex, don’t we?” He gripped the doorknob, and her voice sped up. “Contrary to what you may think, I do not spend my days, or nights for that matter, wondering how muddled your life has become. I have much better ways of employing my time.”
Enough. Rhys pulled the door open, hoping the action would get Daria to come to the point. It worked.
“I know nothing of this woman, but I do have a friend who used to know her very well and may have some information as to her whereabouts.”
Rhys shut the door and turned back to her. “Who is this friend?” No one knew of his father’s codicil involving Dee Gooden and Valmere excepting his solicitors and a few of his most circumspect servants. Was someone leaking information about his private life?
If only he could find Gooden and pay her off. He was sure she did not want an old estate by the sea. Money had always been her Achilles heel. Rhys planned to take full advantage of that flaw, but first she must be found.
Daria reached for a bottle on the table next to her and poured a glass. “Ah, no, my dear duke, it does not work that way. You do not hold the reins in this particular race. You will get no answers until we see some gold.”
He would be very happy to shell out, to the king him
self, if he could be assured of Dee Gooden disappearing, and quickly. He did not want her hanging about making more trouble in his life. He must play this carefully; else Daria would bleed him dry. “Then we have a problem.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I do not pay for promises. If your information leads my men to her, then you will be paid. And handsomely. You have my word, and I have never been false with you, Daria. Whatever anger you harbor against me, you know I have always been totally honest in our dealings.”
“But I need the money now!” She sat up and crossed her arms against her chest like a child who had been denied a sweet.
“You can’t have gone through your quarterly allowance? It is impossible. It is not even mid May.”
“I do not have to answer to you.” She tossed back the rest of her drink, but her bravado was marred by the wince as she lowered her arm. “It is only that I have some new expenses.”
“More like a new paramour who is bleeding you dry. You will get no money from me without results.” He turned and left.
****
Olivia had left Egg sleeping and was retiring to her room, when she tripped on the plush carpet. She gasped and groped for the doorknob behind her, either to steady herself or to escape, she was not sure which.
Stacked on her bed was a mountain of silver-and-pink-striped boxes.
It was beginning.
The idea frightened and drew her at the same time.
After what seemed an eternity, she relaxed her hold on the knob and finally let go altogether. She took a tentative step, as if she were approaching a beautiful but wild animal. She reached out, brushing her fingers over the topmost package; the package that stood out from the rest by its plain brown wrapping. The one tied with an incongruous ribbon she knew cost a small fortune. The one that scared her more than the mountain of smooth, perfect boxes beneath it.
The ribbon, embroidered with primroses, felt heavy and cool, like cream in her hand. She pulled and the stiff paper released, to open like a flower.
She brought a small chair right up to the bed, sat, and wept.
A long while later, when she’d wiped her eyes and blown her nose, she gingerly lifted her mother’s paisley shawl from its paper and swathed herself in its familiar soft warmth.
