A Duke, the Lady, and a Baby

by Vanessa Riley

  “It was a conspiracy. I was confused.”

  “That’s not what the admission papers say. My nephew had to craft a bit of paperwork to overcome the eyewitness accounts stating you were a danger to yourself and your child. There’s sworn testimony about you being so guilt-laden over your husband’s death that you claimed to have seen his ghost and that you took the baby and nearly jumped over the stair railing. Hamlin’s stairs are steep. You or the baby could have been killed from a fall.”

  Wanting to hide at the thought I might’ve hurt Lionel, I brought my palms to my face. “He had us locked in the nursery for weeks. I did what I had to do to keep up my strength and my milk for Lionel. I’d never hurt my baby. Never. I’d give my life to defend him.”

  “I know, dear. You are good, Patience. A very good mother, but the duke will look at the account like a field report. Until he knows you, he’ll believe it. The man will never let you near the child. You have to trust me. We have to be smarter to outdo Markham’s treachery.”

  My cup trembled within my palms; the tea inside sloshed but didn’t spill. The china was sort of like me, so full of heat, but yet I hadn’t cracked, hadn’t exploded. “Why is Markham doing this? I was good to his nephew. I followed the rules. Hamlin was immaculate. I burned the expensive beeswax candles, not cheap tallow ones, in the grand chandelier to welcome Colin home like a conquering hero, like all was well. I pretended not to notice his absences, his gambling. I even took him to my bed whenever he returned, even when I suspected he’d laid in others’ sheets. Why does Markham hate me? Is it my skin?”

  “It’s never that simple. Yes, you were a good wife, but widows are cheated because of money and power. We find which one enticed Markham, and we’ll have the answer.”

  The countess poured more tea. “Drink, Mrs. Jordan. It’s just chamomile.”

  Staring at my full cup, I hadn’t thought it could be tampered with, but my heart believed the best too quickly.

  This was my heel of Achilles.

  I felt too much.

  I saw the deepest love where there was tolerance.

  The handsome hero but not the shadow of his demons.

  I took a sip of my tea, almost wishing it had something in it to deaden my pain. “I don’t want anything more with Markham. I have means, independent of Colin. If I can get into Hamlin and retrieve my trust documents, Lionel and I can live safely.”

  “Yes, if the duke would allow. But Lionel controls Hamlin and more money. Do you understand the terms of your marriage contract or your late husband’s will?”

  “Paperwork? Not exactly.” I crossed my arms. “My father handled those things.”

  “No wonder women are cheated. You have to know details. Your late father had doubts about your husband’s commitment. He put some rather odd terms in the marriage contract.”

  The countess fluffed the lacy cuff of her robe. “Your husband was to collect four thousand pounds upon a son from your womb reaching four months of age and another ten thousand upon his reaching three years old.”

  “Just a son? What if I bore a girl?”

  “A mere five thousand pounds at age five, nothing else. I think your father wanted to assure that you and Mr. Jordan kept trying for success, so to speak.”

  Did Colin know this?

  With the money I’d overheard that he owed, he should have believed this baby was a boy. The payment would have been his, not something from me helping him, as he put it. It would have settled his debts. “Would this money come from the trusts Papa set up for my control?”

  “No, the payment was separate. There are more inheritances that come from the Strathmore side of the family, investments that can’t be touched for some years. Upon Jordan’s death, the baby’s money goes to his guardian, as does control of Lionel’s fortune until he is of age.”

  Markham would get it.

  I bristled on the seat, my heart pounding louder and louder—malicious, malevolent, muckraker. My husband’s dying in December kept rewarding his horrible uncle from the grave.

  Suddenly, so thirsty, I tried to extinguish my tongue with the tea, but a sea couldn’t quench my soul. It was on fire, burning me.

  “The Duke of Repington is your son’s true guardian. I believe Markham delayed giving the child up to get the payment that is due next month. It’s good the duke has assumed custody.”

  “How do I regain my son?”

  “We need proof of Markham’s scheme.” With her sherry eyes softening, the countess clasped my hand. “To put it bluntly, no one is going to believe you were his victim, not without proof. The prejudices against you being foreign, a mulatto, a Blackamoor, a woman, a widow are insurmountable. If it’s found out that you’re gallivanting in men’s clothes and breaking into homes, you’ll be sent back to Bedlam.”

  “There has to be hope. I survived thus far. I’ve not lost my wits. That has to mean something.”

  The countess whispered something to Athena and set the snowball onto the table. The kitty came to me, meowed, then licked my fingers. The touch was soft and calming like Lionel’s coos the first night I snuck into Hamlin and he remembered me, remembered how to suckle.

  “Please don’t tell me to give up, Countess. I cannot.”

  “Never, Patience. We don’t quit. We must gain the duke’s trust. He’s a good man. Once the duke was informed of your husband’s death and the existence of a child, he’s been in dogged pursuit of Lionel. The man is logical but skeptical. He’ll believe the worst, no matter what his charming face says. Since he needs servants, you and Mrs. St. Maur will masquerade as such in Hamlin. You’ll gain his trust while searching for evidence against Markham.”

  “Evidence? But hasn’t Mrs. Kelly been able to find something?”

  “No. Between the little time she was allowed to care for Lionel and avoiding Markham’s flirtations, she’s found nothing. It was a difficult time, and next month is the anniversary of her husband’s death.”

  Lusty, awful Markham would say or do all manner of things to try to have an advantage over a woman. “I must thank Mrs. Kelly, but do you think someone shrewd like Markham left evidence?”

  The countess sat back, sliding her pearls in her palm. “He hasn’t left Hamlin, even though he knew the duke was searching for him. There has to be something in Hamlin he’s hiding.”

  Did my future with Lionel depend upon finding a secret in a house filled with secret things? Slumping forward, I laid my head on the table on a darkened spot that may have been marred by a hot soup pot. “You think it will still be there when Markham is kicked out of Hamlin?”

  “Trust me. There’s something there. And knowing the duke, Markham will be lucky to leave with his cloak. He’ll shake him upside down to make sure no silver fork leaves.”

  Hope stirred in my heart. I wanted vindication more than vengeance.

  The Angora wiggling around my head, her tailless bottom wagging, brought a small lift to my lips that had seemed cemented into a frown. I shooed her toward the countess. “I’ll do as you say. Being close to Lionel is my priority.”

  Lady Shrewsbury made a tsk sound with her teeth, and the fluffy kitten trotted, then jumped into the countess’s lap. “Return to Hamlin as a servant, care for your son, and find the evidence we need to prove Markham’s guilt.”

  “If there weren’t guards, I’d run back to Hamlin now and grab Lionel and escape.”

  “Listen to me very carefully, Patience. The duke hunted down Markham. He’ll chase you and reclaim his cousin’s son. Then he’ll have you committed or imprisoned. He has the power to do this. All male guardians do.”

  The countess shook her head, curl papers bobbing as she stood with Athena. “I know you want to flee. I’ve felt your desperation in my own head. If we do things the right way, you’ll be restored custody. You’re one of mine, Patience Jordan. I won’t let you run.”

  Lady Shrewsbury stashed Athena in the crook of her arm. “Your son needs you in Hamlin. I’ll take you in the morning and use my i
nfluence with the duke to get you hired as a wet nurse and nanny. While you care for your son, you’ll gain the man’s confidence, and I know you will find the tools to expose Markham. The evidence may even give you peace on Jordan’s suicide. I’ve heard your nightmares. You have no peace.”

  Could there be another reason than me, my worsening Colin’s depression? I scooped up the teapot and readied to dry the leaves. “I’ll clean up here and put away the cups.”

  “This masquerade will work. Get some sleep. Things always look better in the morning.”

  Kissing her kitty, Lady Shrewsbury moved to the door. “I expect to see you in the morning, Mrs. Jordan. I hope you’ll be here.”

  “I’ll go by Mrs. LaCroy for our masquerade.”

  Lady Shrewsbury nodded; her mouth even offered a smile. Soon her footsteps disappeared.

  All was quiet.

  I laid out the used tea leaves on a napkin and stacked the cups in the scullery, then rinsed out the pot, the rules for finishing a tea service. Sinking onto the bench, I dropped my face onto the spot the tea had warmed, right next to that communal soup-pot mark. I was grateful for the Widow’s Grace, but I wanted my life restored, all my pieces put back together.

  I’d serve this Duke of Repington to serve Lionel, but only to get my son strong enough to sail. Once I retrieved my trust documents, we’d escape England. It was time to live by my heart’s rules. That had to be the smartest thing a widow could do.

  CHAPTER 7

  A MAN’S BEDCHAMBER

  Groggy from a night of little sleep, I stood at the steps of Hamlin Hall. My head conjured up fears of how my son spent the night in a house teeming with guns.

  But my heart, that easily misled thing, told me that the man I met last night would protect my baby.

  I should tell him the truth and beg for mercy.

  Jemina came to my side, blowing into her bare hands. “Such a pretty house in the morning. Everything is so much lighter than at night.” Laughing, she put her palm out, thumbs touching, as if she could measure the changes. “I suppose that is the way.”

  Offering the girl a side-eyed glance, I nodded. It was all I could muster with my stomach knotting. I stared at the double doors, the shiny brass handles of Hamlin’s entry. Doubt swirled about me like the cream-colored fringe adorning my shawl. The tendrils of the spun wool slipped through my perspiring fingers.

  “I helped the Duke of Repington reach these steps last night. He said he wants a loyal staff. We’re not exactly that. We’re performing another deception.”

  Jemina shrugged. “What a man says, Patience, and what he means are often different. That I remember.”

  Yes, like vows in front of a minister. I squinted at Jemina.

  My friend was scary sometimes.

  It was as if she could read minds. Maybe that was the good part of the life she’d forgotten shining through her amnesia. I heard the bad parts in the girl’s whispers at Bedlam. Jemina had suffered greatly.

  I took a half step forward, just a little ahead of my friend, to be alone with my former house.

  On a cold November morn, Colin brought me here, even helped me up the snow-covered steps. I was a nervous new bride, and he was handsome and tall with deep raven hair. I’d loved him, love on first jest. He’d made me laugh so hard under a Demeraran sunset. A girl mourning her mother needed humor.

  But once inside, I saw the man, his struggles, his sad thoughts. He did his best to assert me as mistress, but only here. He never took me beyond the grounds. I was a prisoner to his moods and fears as much as he.

  Now I visited Hamlin, hoping to serve.

  A nanny couldn’t tell a footman to lower the grand chandelier. Couldn’t ask him to find the fine beeswax candles and light them to pretend she entertained fine guests. I’d have to take orders and continue denying myself, but who was I on these English shores?

  A mere widow?

  A desperate mother?

  More so, a woman guilty over things she should have challenged, should’ve changed.

  “I’m ready to go home.”

  “You’re not talking about Hamlin Hall are you, Patience?”

  Jemina was at my side again, but I couldn’t say aloud that this place was no home, not for me. The rooms I decorated still held bitterness.

  The dining room with my menus—never English enough.

  The bathing room with milk baths for my complexion—never light enough.

  The halls with their echoes catching the purring of my syllables—never sounding proper enough.

  Never. Never. Never. Enough.

  “Jemina, I’m here, and I’m going to win this time.”

  Lady Shrewsbury joined us. “Ladies,” she said as she adjusted her large straw bonnet bearing a blush pink ribbon, “it’s time to put our next act into motion.”

  She gathered our palms together. The woman was elegant in bishop-blue gloves and a deep violet carriage gown appointed with military-style brass buttons.

  The countess dressed as a lady. Jemina and I wore the costumes of servants.

  I stopped fretting, stopped lading my shoulders with coconuts and boulders and doubts and listened to Lady Shrewsbury’s prayer.

  “The holy habitation is the protector of widows, providing relief and favor. This is the widow’s grace.” She clasped our hands and led our aproned and mobcap brigade up the stairs. “Now, we win.”

  The doors opened before she knocked. A guard, a fellow in a regimental-red military uniform answered holding a gun in his hand. He lowered it. “How did you get past the guards at the gates?”

  “Never mind that, young man. We’ve come to see the Duke of Repington. I’m an old friend, and he’s in dire need of our services.”

  The guard lowered his flintlock. “The commander has not mentioned visitors. Return later.”

  “Tell him Lady Shrewsbury is here. He’ll see me.”

  “Let me ask.” The man closed the door with a thud.

  I folded my arms under my shawl, hiding my fists. “He didn’t even think of leading us to the drawing room. Colin had his visitors meet there, not that he’d want me in there.”

  A flash of my husband’s last visit, late summer. A few weeks before I last saw him, he and Markham argued with a man in there. I’d never heard Colin raise his voice. Such words, so rude.

  “This soldier was r-rude.”

  My purring mouth, I swiped at it. “The first guard had better manners.”

  “That fellow I knew,” the countess said. “I helped the man’s sister with a little paperwork. The impact of the Widow’s Grace is wide.”

  Jemina clasped my elbow. “Patience, you’re shaking.”

  I was, and no amount of knitted threads could hide it. “We’re so close to Lionel. Now this scrutiny and having to be so careful.”

  Lady Shrewsbury brushed my shoulder. “You need to calm yourself. We must impress the duke.”

  Another man set to judge me. I nodded and found a smile, a begrudged tug of my tight lips.

  The door opened again. “The duke will meet with you at ten o’clock. Return then.”

  “That’s two hours from now,” Lady Shrewsbury said. “That’s unaccept—”

  A baby’s loud cry.

  Lionel’s cry.

  He wailed for a moment, then stopped like something muzzled his mouth.

  I edged forward, but the countess gripped the sleeve of my gown. Her hold was the only thing keeping me from dashing inside.

  “Young man,” the countess said, “how long has the baby been crying? I have a nanny here who can help.”

  “Ma’am,” the soldier said. “It’s off and on. He’s just picked that racket up again thirty minutes ago.”

  “Racket?” I gasped, shook free of the countess’s hold, then ducked under the guard’s arm. Sliding across the marble tiles, beneath the shadow of the grand chandelier, I was in the middle of a camp. The hall was a sea of tents—flat white, bell-shaped tan, and flags backed all the way up to the stone gods, th
e three warrior statues near the stairs. The duke’s army had made camp on my floor.

  Lionel shrieked again.

  “Wait, Mrs. LaCroy,” the countess said. “Have some patience, please.”

  I couldn’t.

  Not with my baby crying.

  I hiked my skirt and sped up the stairs to the second story. Lionel sounded as if he were on this level, not the third floor with the nursery.

  “Come down, woman. Stop!”

  Soldiers were coming for me. Jemina blocked one, fluttering in front of him with her dark gray skirts.

  I spun to the left and then to the right. Which way to my child?

  Lionel started again, though softer now, he was indeed on the second floor, in one of the bedrooms. The master’s bedchamber?

  People were running after me, pounding up the stairs.

  They’d drag me out.

  Not again. I turned the corner and pushed into the room where my boy’s sobs seemed the loudest.

  I closed the door, then froze.

  Lionel, my baby was here . . . in the arms of a man rocking him . . . in my bed. Through the sheer silver curtains of the canopy, I saw a masculine figure hovering over Lionel. His thick arm half-covered in a billowing burgundy robe swallowed all but my baby’s big head.

  “You’re not wet again, are you, lad? I’m running out of shirts. Come on now, little soldier, milk will be here soon.”

  My panicked spirit eased. This man was trying to appease Lionel, not punish him.

  I took another step into the room, staring at the man, my baby, and the bland white walls surrounding them all. It was one of the only rooms I hadn’t redecorated to make it seem warmer, loved. Paint couldn’t cover lies.

  “Come on, my boy. We were getting along.”

  That voice. Deep and rich.

  The shadows and outline of this fellow half-hidden in the bedclothes was large and overpowering.

  And familiar.

  It had to be the duke from last night.

  I squinted through the curtains to be sure.