A Duke, the Lady, and a Baby

by Vanessa Riley

  “Oh, no. I’m not going by myself.” The lithe little woman tugged Patience’s boot. “If you’re caught trespassing, you’ll never see your son again. Come down. Widows need to be smarter. That’s what the countess always says.”

  Parroting sentiments was what the amnesia-suffering woman did. If only Jemina could parrot emotions. Then she’d understand the depths of my rage, the girth of my fears. They were wide, wider than the sea.

  “I’ve made sure you were unhurt, but I have to stay for Lionel.”

  “You can’t stop them if they move him. Listen to me, Patience. I know my thoughts aren’t always clear, but I’ve come to realize it takes all of us to win. Come down, and let’s go to Lady Shrewsbury. She’ll know what to do.”

  I didn’t want to hear this. I didn’t want logic. I wanted to be invincible for a moment, to walk into Hamlin, demand my baby, then leave.

  That was fantasy.

  I clenched the overhanging branch almost throttling it. “But my son . . .”

  “We found him. We’ll find him again!”

  The mousy woman I’d been chained to at Bedlam, the one who only talked in whispers now shouted. I hated and loved that about Jemina, that she’d say her truth and do so no matter what.

  Resigned, I swung down. “Let’s go see if Shrewsbury’s done with me. You think she’ll toss me into the asylum again?”

  Jemina pulled me into a tight hug. “I’ll go, too. It’s not as if my memories have returned.”

  This woman was the reason I had been freed so quickly. When the countess’s barrister came for Jemina St. Maur, this lady wouldn’t leave, not unless I was freed, too.

  “I owe you everything, Jemina. I’d still be there watching the spectators throw pennies at my head. You survived in Bedlam two years. I don’t know how you did that. I was in tears every moment, and my imprisonment was a mere ten days.”

  “Lucky, I guess.”

  Rays of light emanating from Jemina’s lantern showed the truth in my friend’s blank, dour eyes. Bedlam and amnesia had stolen her life, one that had a child or children and a husband who probably loved this sweet girl to distraction.

  The part of my heart that remembered the love of my sisters thawed. A deep confidence with people who truly cared for me was something I had lacked these lonely years in merry old . . . horrible England.

  I nodded, my neck bobbing fast. “I’ll be smarter, Jemina, for you.”

  Wiping her face free of the scarlet hair falling from her chignon, Jemina tugged at the heavy gray scarf wrapping her shoulders. “Then let’s go to the countess.”

  That smile of Jemina’s, so innocent and trusting. She’d found peace. Maybe the absence of memories, of no longer remembering loss was best.

  But I knew exactly how much had been taken from me.

  Hoping for a sign that all was well, I kept looking over my shoulder toward Hamlin. Nothing but darkness met my eyes the entire two-mile walk to Lady Shrewsbury’s leased estate. The sound of crickets and an owl’s hoot could be heard above the noise of my boots crunching snow, crushing twigs blown free in last week’s storm.

  Pretty poor signs.

  My eternal optimism waned, but I decided that it was just too dark to see a rainbow or some work of a goddess of hope.

  The door to the kitchen hung open about an inch, just like we’d left it. We snuck inside. The house was quiet and still. Before I could shut the door, a match struck.

  Then another.

  Then another.

  Soon a wave of bright candles formed a ring about the pale green kitchen. It was as if Hamlin’s grand chandelier had been lowered and Jemina and I were caught in its middle.

  We were the accused standing in the silent glow of the flames, the frowning faces of the Widow’s Grace.

  This wasn’t the sign I wanted.

  The secret society of avengers, women of all sizes, all shapes, glared at us. These widows said nothing.

  No words of surprise, no condemnation or caught you.

  The mix of pink, ruddy, brown, and tanned countenances—all kept their lips pinched.

  Then the door slammed.

  The finality stopped my heart. The scent of prim-and-proper rosewater fell upon me, resurrecting new shame.

  Lady Shrewsbury, the wizened leader of the group stood at the threshold. She’d shut the door. With ash-blond hair set with curl papers, the countess folded her arms. “Patience Jordan. Jemina St. Maur. We’ve been expecting you.”

  I opened my mouth, then closed it. Nothing could be said. We’d broken the group’s rules by leaving without permission.

  “I’m disappointed.” The countess shook her head. The sleeves of her mango-colored robe fluttered from the effort. The luminous pearls at her throat reflected the cheery hue like lavish Poinciana flowers.

  The short, buxom woman could be an awakening goddess. But was she one of the good ones, or one who could destroy mankind with a stare?

  Eyes down, I stepped in front of Jemina. “I’m to blame, Lady Shrewsbury. Mrs. St. Maur is innocent. I led her astray.”

  The countess sighed, a tired, heavy one. “What shall I do with you?”

  The tone, shrill and crisp, was an exact copy of my mother’s. It mirrored her many disappointments in her middle daughter—a torn dress hem, a broken vase, spilling tea on one of Papa’s lecherous business associates. Well, that accident made Mama’s grimace turn into a brief smile. A very brief and seldom-displayed one when it came to me.

  “Mrs. St. Maur,” the countess said, “you and the rest may go to bed. I must speak with Mrs. Jordan alone.”

  Jemina frowned but dragged from the room behind the others.

  “Sorry, ma’am.” I said the words fast but braced for a dressing down.

  None came.

  When I lifted my gaze to the countess, I felt fifteen years old, gaping at the paled countenance of another disapproving lady, one too tired from sickness to say all the ways her tomboy daughter had brought shame to her door. Mama’s ebony eyes possessed the same sadness as Lady Shrewsbury’s sherry ones.

  The countess came closer. “I want to help you, but you continue to break the rules. Are your circumstances worse than any other widow here? Has your father’s wealth made you think you’re too good for our rules?”

  I never was “too good” or special. I was different and discouraged and alone except for Jemina. Tears welled, but I couldn’t swallow more grief. I was about to burst. “I am awful and terrible, but I’m a mother. That doesn’t make me better than anyone here, just more desperate.”

  The countess dropped her arms by her side, her gold rings showing beneath her lacy sleeves, one for each of her three husbands. “Are your circumstances more desperate than the widow whose family dumped her onto the streets with no widow’s portion or the means for a roof over her head? Or the mother whose husband’s aunt has taken her sons, eight and ten, who won’t answer her letters? Or the lady whose daughters have been sent out of the country? I have sensible rules for your protection, Mrs. Jordan. You jeopardize the safety of the group when you break them.”

  “Rules. I’m dying from rules.” I lowered my wet face into my gloves. The thin wool couldn’t mop up my sorrow. “Since stepping upon these shores, I followed rules, did as everyone said. I was a good wife. My mama would’ve been proud of the home I kept.”

  I wiped and wiped. Ashy powder caked on my gloves, my sleeves. “And you, a peer of this land, don’t you like how well I’ve conformed? I’ve even practiced and practiced until most of my Demeraran accent has fled. But see my reward, ma’am? My son still gets taken away. Rules don’t help.”

  I smeared the cosmetic from my stinging eyes. I wished I couldn’t see, but I could. The countess’s countenance had that blank look, Mama’s look.

  The grief of it, the memories of her weighed too much. Swoosh. My knees buckled. My livery ballooned out like a ship’s sail as I dropped to the countess’s feet. Grabbing at Lady Shrewsbury’s legs, I held tight, like they were Mama
’s skirts.

  I couldn’t let go.

  I needed forgiveness.

  I needed it now.

  My repeated sorries garbled, and I wept upon the hem of the woman’s garment. “I don’t know how many times my Lionel’s been fed. His bottom is so red and pimpled from not being attended. I left him tonight to lay on soiled sheets. Soiled sheets! I don’t want to disappoint you, Countess. But how can I be away and let him suffer?”

  Lady Shrewsbury bent to me, and I tensed for a slap, but the woman put her arms about me and drew me into the tightest embrace.

  Forgiveness.

  Not earned. Not negotiated. Not even spoken, but felt through and through, that’s what Lady Shrewsbury’s arms offered. I clung to her, baptized in her rosewater and kindness.

  “It will be well, Patience. You’re headstrong but good. Remember that.”

  How long I lingered in this woman’s bosom I didn’t know, but the embrace felt like love, like hope. Tonight, that was enough to pull some of my broken pieces together.

  The countess tossed away my wig and mussed my frizzy curls. She took a lacy cloth and wiped my face free of the remaining cosmetic. “You are special, Patience. Each of my widows is. But to right wrongs, we have to be smarter. You take too many risks. Tonight, you could’ve ruined any chance to regain custody.”

  I straightened and swiped at my cheeks. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have to wonder if Lionel ate tonight. For that, I’ll never be sorry.”

  The countess looped her arm through mine and tugged me forward to the kitchen table. The huge walnut furnishing with sturdy benches along its sides centered the Widow’s Grace. It was the hallowed place where the women congregated to encourage one another and plot.

  “Lionel doesn’t like pap milk, Patience. My widow, Mrs. Kelly, tells me she struggles to get him to drink.”

  I had to touch my jaw to see if it remained attached. The countess had a spy in Hamlin. “You—”

  “Sit, Patience. Now is the time for you to know all.”

  Lady Shrewsbury moved to the stylish klismos chair at the end, one with the harp back like the ones in Hamlin’s drawing room.

  I shuddered, my head forming an image of Colin brooding in that room, doing his business, wanting no disturbances, needing distance. His comings and goings throughout our marriage stayed with me as did my many regrets.

  Lady Shrewsbury’s snow-white Angora, the kitty she kept at her side, wagged her head at me. Athena’s one green eye, one blue eye saw everything, I was sure of it. She knew I cringed, fearing what her mistress would disclose.

  “Mrs. Kelly has been thwarting Mr. Markham’s advances, even the rudeness of the current staff, to care for your baby. But all is in place for us to act.”

  Stunned, barely able to suppress the rapid beating of my chest, I collapsed onto the bench. I didn’t know what to think except that all-knowing Shrewsbury was an English version of Erzulie-Ge-Rouge, the red-eyed goddess of revenge. With the cat minion, her klismos throne, and imperial robes, she could be her, if gods wore curl papers.

  My brow scrunched, and I clutched the worn wood of the table. “Spy? Markham? What’s in place, ma’am?”

  “Tea is one of those civilized English things. I think we should make some and then discuss my plans to secure your future with Lionel.”

  “I don’t want tea. I want facts. Do you know that a duke has overtaken Hamlin Hall?”

  “I do. I sent for him.”

  My ears must have stopped working. I twiddled the lobe, more ashy cosmetic coming off on my thumbs. “What?”

  “I’ve been waiting for Repington. This is part of my plan. I pray you haven’t ruined it.”

  This wasn’t right.

  Lady Shrewsbury lifted Athena and went toward the scullery. Her face held a broad smile, her lips pursed with an I-know-something-you-don’t arch.

  Fire and nerves exploded in my middle. I trusted the countess, and she solicited armed soldiers to surround my baby. Clasping the table, I tried to make sense of it all, but the one thing I was sure of, my ability to detect good people from bad ones was surely broken.

  CHAPTER 5

  A TRUE GUARDIAN RISES

  Busick drummed his thumb along the desk. More than forty minutes had passed since the last scout entered the drawing room and reported. All sweeps of the property were fruitless. No widow was located, just trunks in the catacombs and a pile of coconuts.

  Odd, but nothing dastardly.

  Rubbing the muscles along his neck, he leaned back in the chair. If he could, he’d put a boot atop the desk to gain more comfort, but there was none to be had, not with his thoughts heavy on Colin.

  “You were happiest here. Your son shall be, too. To your boy, I’ll be a father, the one we both never had. I promise this.”

  The door flung open with a resounding thud.

  Markham, the devil, marched inside. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  With hands steadied atop the desk and not upon his sidearm flintlock, Busick smiled. “ ’Tis my duty to inform you, your services are no longer needed. Go on, have a drink, then head out of Hamlin Hall forever.”

  The man looked as if he could chew through the desk, but he turned and headed straight to the sideboard. With its walnut wood polished to shine, the thing must be a beacon for drunkards.

  Markham gripped the furnishing as if he wanted to pick it up and throw it. The lanky man cursed aloud, then seized a crystal decanter. Pour after pour, he downed one brandy and then another. On his third, he walked to the desk.

  Wild ash-colored hair scattered here and there, Markham muttered to himself and slurped. “You invade my home. You—”

  “This is not your home. It belongs to Lionel Jordan, Colin Jordan’s son.”

  The man gulped all the contents of his goblet, then slammed it down on the desk. The glass spun—swoop, swoop—sounding as if it would shatter. “He’s a mere babe. He’s not fit to handle the business of running Hamlin.”

  Busick reached out and stopped the glass mid-spin. “But neither are you. Leave now before I have you flung down the steps.”

  “I’m his guardian. I’m to take care of his interests.”

  “No, you are not. You know this. That was my cousin’s instructions in his will. Yet you’ve sent me on multiple wild-goose chases across the whole of England to avoid turning over the child. Stop feigning indignation. You fool no one.”

  A tremble set in Markham’s hand.

  Good. The firm tone in Busick’s voice still held sway.

  The blackguard’s gray eyes drifted, then he smiled. “Well, you must admit it’s been a good chase. I didn’t think you’d come this way for another month. That’s what I get for not listening to idle chatter.”

  “Leave now, Markham.”

  The fiend looked around as if he’d misplaced something. “Give your uncle a little credit. The little mongrel’s healthy, and I’ve kept that awful woman away from him.”

  “You’re not my uncle . . . Awful woman? The boy’s mother? Where is she?”

  Markham’s smile widened, then he turned and walked past the grand pianoforte before stopping. He seemed distracted by the silvered mirror hanging about the fireplace. “Gone, I suppose. Jordan set her up as if she were worthy to be mistress here. The wench even went about redecorating Hamlin as if it were hers.”

  So Mrs. Jordan was responsible for the new look. “How could she afford it? My cousin was always in need of money.”

  “Yes, he was. But Mrs. Jordan’s father set her up quite well with trusts, plenty of funds to draw upon. I heard she even hid some coins around here. She was suspicious of English banks. Odd foreigner.”

  Foreigner?

  “Lady Bodonel didn’t think much of her.”

  Mother had met her. All he’d seen was a name on paper, Mrs. Jordan, no other accounting of anything, as if she didn’t exist or was an afterthought in the legal papers.

  He tapped the desk. “Maybe Mrs. Jordan had a distrust in you. That yo
u or my cousin might seize her money. You two have always been awful in handling finances.”

  Markham undid his wilted cravat and started again. “Her money was his, or it should’ve been. I told him to press her for our business concerns, but he refused.”

  Some decency remained in Colin, but he always hated asking for help. Busick hated asking as well. He shifted in his chair. “A man needs to fix his own brokenness before he can entangle others.”

  “But your cousin wouldn’t have had to die if he’d taken her money.”

  “He didn’t have to die at all. That was his choice. Where’s his widow?”

  “Mrs. Jordan? Not sure. She was very low in her spirits after the birth. She was a danger to the baby, so depressed, feeling so badly about not helping Colin. Perhaps four years alone in Hamlin with its rumored ghosts twisted her mind.”

  The man turned toward Busick. “I often wonder how you’ve kept your head, given all the deaths you’ve seen. Been in a lot of battles, haven’t you?”

  Well, well, that was his game, still playing with people’s minds. A woman surviving childbirth and the death of her husband could surely be made a victim to Markham’s schemes. Busick hammered the desk, the goblet wobbled again.

  “Where is she? Where . . . is . . . Mrs. . . . Jordan?”

  “The woman ran off, Your Grace. If she hadn’t run, I’d have rid the place of her for the child’s sake.”

  Abandon a newborn? No, that didn’t feel right. Busick wanted to stand and punch the lies from Markham’s lips, but that would show his injured leg. Instead, he pulled his gun and set it on the desk.

  “What have you done with her? Tell me now or suffer the consequences.”

  The smile on the fiend’s lanky face waned. “Perhaps if I stayed at Hamlin, I could remember something.”

  “Your presence is no longer required.”

  “Are you so set in your decision? Your Grace, I’m sure I could prove useful.”

  “Out, Markham. I’ll locate her.”

  “You don’t want her. She’s a danger to the little gold piece upstairs. We could work together. I could help you manage Hamlin. Maybe help replenish your coffers, the ones depleted maintaining your mother’s household.”