by Liz Carlyle
“Antonia,” he finally said, “do you wish to remarry now?” His heart leapt into his throat as he waited for her answer.
At last she shook her head. “No, and I have no wish to return to London,” she said. “Not for any reason.”
Gareth felt both relieved and wounded by her vehemence on the subject. “Antonia, you told me a few days ago that you were strong,” he said quietly. “That I should never underestimate your strength. I think your father has done that. He has underestimated your strength. You have only to write to him and tell him that you do not wish to marry. You must be very firm. You must make it plain to him that you are well enough now you will not be bullied.”
“It is not so easy, Gabriel, as you make it out.” Her voice was soft but stronger. “For the most part, Papa has always tried to help me. He and my brother are all the family I have.”
“Antonia, that simply is not true.” He knew he was going to regret if not his words, then the fervor in them. “You are a part of this family. You are a Ventnor until you remarry or die. Your father has no power here.”
“You are the only Ventnor left,” she answered, flashing a faint smile.
“Yes, but one is enough,” he assured her. “If you wish to hide behind me, Antonia, you are welcome to. If your father tries to cross me, I’ll make damned sure he regrets it. But the truth is, you do not really need me. You are stronger, I think, than even you know.”
She looked at him quietly for a long moment. “No, I do not need you,” she finally said. “At least—well, I am trying not to. But thank you, Gabriel, for saying that. I won’t hide behind you. I am going to have the life I wanted long ago—the life of a widow in control of her own destiny. No one, not even my father, will stand in my way. But I still do not relish the fight.”
He understood then what she was saying. And he was beginning to admire her determination. They sat together in silence for a time. There was nothing but the birdsong and the gentle rustling of leaves in the breeze.
At last, she shifted as if to rise. “Thank you,” she said again. “I came out, actually, to work in the roses, not to sit and mope. Would you care to join me?”
Gareth rose and extended his hand. “I am afraid I cannot,” he lied. “Watson is expecting me.”
He watched her quietly as she picked up her basket and walked away. As always, he was unable to take his eyes from her. Their conversation had oddly shaken him. But there was no denying that Antonia was beauty in motion. Her narrow shoulders straightened beneath the dark blue fabric of her gown, and she held her head up like the duchess she was as she stepped from the shadow of the house, and into the brilliant afternoon sun. The light caught her blond hair, warming it to a golden glow.
Although he had known many beautiful women—known some of them in the most intimate of ways—he had never felt drawn to one as he was drawn to Antonia. He was not perfectly sure what he wanted of her. Sexually, of course, he desired her. But she also stirred his protective instincts in a way no woman ever had, and that was troubling. Certainly Xanthia, the only woman Gareth had ever loved, had not needed him in that way. Actually, she had not needed him in any way—save for the physical satisfaction he had given her. That, at least, he knew how to provide.
But their youthful affaire had not lasted long. Xanthia had refused his proposals of marriage. They had settled back into their old routine of being, for the most part, good friends and coworkers. Nonetheless, it had hurt and frustrated him. Much of that frustration had been turned inward. Still young and impulsive, he had begun to grasp the fact that while he might be a nice port in a storm—sometimes almost literally—he was not what women needed in the long term. He was just a short-term remedy for an itch that needed scratching.
Was he about to make a fool of himself yet again? Over another woman who did not need him? Gareth shook his head. He did not have time for this. Watson was hitching up the threshing machine. It was time to see if the contraption would do them any good come harvest, which was right around the corner.
The Vicomte de Vendenheim-Sélestat stood at the deep window of his office and looked down at the crush of traffic in Whitehall. In his left hand, he clutched a letter, while his right was braced firmly on the window frame. London was suffering the last of a hot, damp summer, and even the horses looked wilted.
Feeling rather wilted himself, de Vendenheim turned his back to the window and thrust the letter into the light. Again, he read it. “Mr. Howard!” he bellowed to the front office clerk.
Howard came in at once, his spectacles sliding down his nose. “Yes, my lord?”
“When did this bloody letter come?”
“J-Just this morning, my lord.”
“Very well,” he said. “Is the Home Secretary in?”
“Yes, sir,” said Howard. “Do you wish to see him?”
“I am afraid, Howard, that I must.”
Five minutes later, he stood before Mr. Peel’s desk, two letters in hand. After exchanging perfunctory greetings, de Vendenheim laid the first letter—an unsigned letter—down. “I am afraid some old debts are being called in,” he said. “George Kemble asks a favor.”
“Indeed? Of what sort?” Peel glanced down at the perfect, angular penmanship.
“Kemble is helping with a murder inquiry,” said de Vendenheim. “A private case, for the people who own Neville Shipping. He needs someone to hold a little fire to the local justice of the peace.”
Peel’s eyes were sweeping over the letter. “Ah, I see,” he murmured. “And this is to be Kemble’s kindling, is it?”
De Vendenheim nodded. “It simply states that Mr. Kemble acts on your behalf in this matter,” he said. “And it strongly encourages the justice’s full cooperation.”
Peel smiled faintly. “Expecting trouble, is he?” But he took up his pen and, in an instant, slashed his signature across the bottom. “Now, what second small favor does Kemble ask? Out with it.”
De Vendenheim tried not to exhale aloud. “Do you know Lord Litting?”
Mr. Peel shrugged. “Socially, a bit.”
“The dead man is Litting’s uncle by marriage.”
Some of the confusion fell away from Peel’s face. “Yes, the Duke of Warneham’s death. There were some nasty whispers, I recall. But it was finally ruled an accident, was it not?”
“Yes, and it probably was,” said de Vendenheim. “But the rumors and questions have not died down, and Kemble wishes to pursue it, just to make certain. He wants me to speak with Litting, who was in the house, apparently, on the night of his uncle’s death. Sir Harold Hardell accompanied him.”
“Hardell.” Peel smiled a little grimly. “Is either a suspect?”
“Not so far as I know,” said the vicomte. “I’d like to question the nephew. But I may have to send him through the mangle a time or two, in order to press out what little information he may have.”
“Yes, well.” Peel coughed discreetly and reached for his pen. “I’m sure he will be a better man for it.”
De Vendenheim smiled grimly. “Perhaps, but it will likely make him angry,” he warned. “Still, we do owe Kem for his work in that smuggling case.”
“Pray do not give it a second thought.” Peel drew a sheet of letter paper from his drawer and began to scratch out a note. “Give this to Litting if there’s any trouble,” he said. “If I must choose between angering a nobleman I scarcely know and one of the best operatives we’ve ever had—well, it may be dashed awkward—but I know whom I shall choose.”
Gratefully, de Vendenheim took the note. “I hope you don’t regret this, sir,” he said.
“Yes.” Peel smiled faintly. “So do I.”
De Vendenheim was halfway out the door when Peel spoke again. “Wait, Max—what do you mean to do about Sir Harold?” he asked. “I should rather not make an enemy of a preeminent barrister.”
De Vendenheim nodded. “I shall leave him out of it, if at all possible,” he assured him.
Peel sighed. “Do what you can
, then,” he added. “But Max?—”
Hand on the doorknob, de Vendenheim stuck his head back in. “Yes, sir?”
Peel looked deeply pensive. “Whatever else you do…see justice done.”
“I believe, my lady, that you are putting on a little weight,” said Nellie on Saturday morning. “This habit is getting just a little snug.”
Antonia turned toward the pier glass and stuck her thumb into the waistband of her skirt. “It is a little tighter,” she agreed. “Will it do, still?”
“Lord, yes, and you could do with another stone after that one,” said Nellie, going into the dressing room to fetch her mistress’s boots. “Where does the duke wish to ride today?”
“I don’t know,” Antonia confessed, following the maid. “He said only that he wished me to meet him at ten, and that it was a surprise.”
“Terry says they put in a new staircase up at the manor yesterday,” said Nellie. “Likely that’d be it.”
Antonia laughed. “I did nearly fall through the old one,” she said, pulling on her boots.
“Well, you stay near to the master, my lady,” Nellie advised, shaking her finger. “Don’t go wanderin’ off in that moldering old heap, do you hear? Next time he mightn’t be able to drag you back out again.”
“Why, Nellie, you make it sound utterly romantic!” said Antonia. “I do believe you are revising your opinion of our new duke.”
“Judgment’s still out,” Nellie bristled, brushing a speck of lint from Antonia’s habit. “But so long as he’s kind to you, his doings are none of my concern.”
Antonia laughed again and spun around before the mirror. It was a silly, girlish thing to do—but lately, she was feeling a little girlish. When the moment of dizziness subsided, she studied her face in the mirror, paying particular attention to the lines which were beginning to show at the corners of her eyes. She ran her hands down her bodice, smoothing the fabric over her breasts and ribs.
Yes, she still looked well enough, she thought. And she had put on weight. The bosom of the jacket was decidedly more snug, and her color was slowly returning. She was resting a little better, too, though she still was not taking her sleeping draught. When Dr. Osborne chided her, she simply changed the subject. She would no longer live her life sedated and uncertain. The choice was hers, and she had made it.
She was inordinately pleased that Gabriel had invited her to go riding today. It was such a simple pleasure, anticipation. It had been a long time since she had had anything to look forward to. But this was just riding, she reminded herself, holding her own gaze in the mirror. Just riding. With Gabriel, a man who was not for her. He had said so himself, and Antonia knew that he was right. No one in their right mind could wish to be saddled with her—not in that way. And for all his kindness, for all the pleasure his touch could engender in her, Gabriel kept a part of himself—a large part of himself—at a distance. She did not know him, and she must accept that she might never do so.
She cut a swift glance at the mantel clock. “Lud, look at the time!” she said, starting toward the shelf which held her hats. “Nellie, which hat do you think—”
The maid was sitting in something of a heap in the chair by the dressing room. Antonia rushed to her. “Nellie!” she said, kneeling. “What is it? Oh, my dear, you look pale as a ghost!”
Nellie dragged a hand across her brow, which was beaded in sweat. “Get up, ma’am, and move away,” she ordered. “I think per’aps I’ve caught something.”
Instead Antonia went to the bell and pulled it sharply, then poured a glass of water. “Have you a temperature, Nellie?” she asked anxiously. “Does your throat hurt?”
Reluctantly, the maid nodded. “Aye, since this morning,” she admitted. “I ought to have said so sooner. I thought…I thought it would come to naught.”
One of the upstairs maids came in and took one look at Nellie. “Lord, it’s that quinsy that’s going round!” declared the girl. “I could just wring the boot boy’s neck for carrying it into the house.”
Nellie was looking more bleary-eyed by the minute. Antonia felt guilty for not having noticed it sooner. “How many are ill with it now?” she asked.
“Rose and Linnie in the kitchens,” said the girl. “Three of the grooms and the stable boy. Then Jane fell ill this morning. Oh, Mrs. Waters, I really think you’d best go upstairs to bed. I shall have Mrs. Musbury make up a mustard plaster. Dr. Osborne’s already been sent for, I hope, on account of Jane.”
Antonia pointed to the door. “Off you go,” she said to Nellie. “You have your orders. And do not come back down under any circumstance until you are well again.”
“You will go for your ride?” Nellie demanded.
Antonia hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, if you wish. But I will check in on you as soon as I return.”
After a few more moments of protest, Nellie was bundled off in the care of the maid. Antonia grabbed the first riding hat she saw and hastened downstairs.
Chapter Twelve
G abriel hunkered behind the gravestone, sitting as motionless as he possibly could. The sun was hot on his shoulders, the air deathly still. Behind him, a honeybee droned. He could hear Cyril rushing across the grass, his breathing heavy. Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut and tried to shrink.
“Found you! Found you!” Cyril’s voice rang out some yards away.
There was a momentary scuffle in the grass. “Cyril, you cheated!” Jeremy’s voice trembled with anger. “You were to count a hundred.”
“I did!” said Cyril. “I did count a hundred!”
“Cyril? Lord Litting?” A man’s voice boomed across the churchyard.
“Oh, bugger it!” Jeremy whispered.
Gabriel peered around the gravestone to see a man in a cleric’s frock striding across the stubbled grass. Jeremy looked up at him defiantly and thrust out an arm. “There’s another over there,” he said, pointing. “It’s not just us.”
The priest turned around and scowled. Chin down, Gabriel came out to join them.
“I think the three of you know this is not a place for playing,” the priest chided. “Lord Litting, you are the eldest. These boys look to you for an example.”
“We’re sorry, sir.” Cyril, at least, looked truly contrite. “It shan’t happen again.”
“Kindly see that it does not,” said the priest. Then he turned to Gabriel and smiled. “You must be Gabriel Ventnor. Welcome to the village. Shall we see you at St. Alban’s on Sunday?”
Jeremy’s mouth turned down in a sneer. “He cannot come with us,” the boy spat. “My mamma says he’s just a godless Jew.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Jeremy,” said Cyril.
The priest set a warm hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “God welcomes everyone into his house, Lord Litting. I hope young Gabriel here will always remember that?”
Gareth waited a little impatiently at the foot of the steps. He held his horse’s head, while Statton, one of Sels don’s pensioners, held the reins of the small but beautiful gray gelding which Antonia always favored. Vaguely, Gareth wondered if the wizened old servant remembered him. He did not recall the groom, but that meant very little.
“It looks a good day for a ride,” said Gareth conversationally.
Statton spat into the gravel. “Fine, but turning,” he said in his raspy voice. “We’ll ’ave rain, belike, by supper.”
Gareth surveyed the sky. “Yes, I daresay.” He turned to face the former groom. “Listen, Statton, I appreciate your coming up from the village. This illness going round is the devil—just be sure you don’t take it yourself, all right?”
The old man drew a leather cord from beneath his worn leather jerkin. “Horseradish and cloves,” he said, flashing a near-toothless grin. “Wards it off.”
“I trust it will work for you,” said Gareth doubtfully. The man was taciturn, but Gareth pressed on, having nothing better to do while cooling his heels. The gray, too, seemed impatient, and was wheeling about, kicking up dust and gravel
. “That’s a prime goer the duchess rides,” he commented. “Bred here at Selsdon, was he?”
The old man laughed, but it sounded bitter. “Weren’t nought bred here, Your Grace,” said Statton just as Kemble came down the stairs, a basket over his arm. “The old duke allowed it cost too much.”
“Really?” said Gareth. “I should have thought it more efficient.”
Statton shrugged and spat again. “Didn’t want the upkeep on the mares,” he said matter-of-factly. “Costs a lot to keep ’em in hay through the winter, and ’e allowed they weren’t never worth the trouble.”
Not worth the trouble! That must have been Warneham’s logic for letting Knollwood go to hell, too.
Kemble stopped to admire the gray. “Gorgeous creature,” he remarked, turning to Gareth. “Well, I’m off to the village to fetch Dr. Osborne and do a little shopping. May I get you anything?”
“Thank you, no.” Gareth was still stroking the gray’s nose, but the animal’s hindquarters kept shifting restlessly. “What do you need with Osborne?”
“Jane and Mrs. Waters have succumbed to that putrid throat going round.”
“Good Lord, this stuff is like the plague,” said Gareth. Kemble shrugged and went on his way. Gareth returned his attention to Statton. “Where did they get this gorgeous fellow?”
The old man’s squint narrowed. “Off Lord Mitchley back in ’21—that was afore the falling out—but ’e was bought for the duchess. Not this one. The one before.”
Gareth winced. “Yes, the one who fell.”
Statton shook his head. “No,” he said. “The lady who went to sleep and never woke.”
“Sorry, yes,” said Gareth. “I confess, I get them confused.”
At that, Statton wheezed with laughter, as if Gareth had just made the world’s greatest joke, but Gareth was still thinking of Warneham.
From his long days spent reviewing the estate accounts with Watson, Gareth was beginning to understand that his dead cousin had been a cheap, spiteful bastard. The spat with Lord Mitchley had begun over nothing—a bit of fence not kept in repair—and had escalated to the point of ridiculousness. He had ordered Cavendish and Watson to settle the matter.
