A Duke, the Lady, and a Baby

by Vanessa Riley

“We will continue this discussion later. I’ll have my schedule of the boy’s activities ready for you this afternoon.”

  I stopped, took my hand from the door latch. “Excuse me?”

  “Yes, I have a schedule. Plans for my ward.”

  “He’s a baby.”

  “I’ve made men of less well-behaved people. Lionel Jordan will live up to my expectations. I’ll visit you in the nursery at fifteen past one.”

  “Fifteen past what? Why so exact?”

  “Precision is my strength. I’ll meet you then, and we can discuss my other requirements for Master Jordan. You’ll have to adhere to them if you stay.”

  If?

  Oh, that didn’t sound good.

  But how dare a stranger try to tell me how to take care of my Lionel? I felt my smile freezing, falling off, and shattering on the floor. “Yes, sir.”

  “Have the child and the nursery ready for inspection.”

  Servants had to defer to guardians. I kissed my son again. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  The duke looked like he attempted to rise but sank into his pillows.

  Something was definitely wrong.

  I couldn’t help my gaze pinning to the wheels on the invalid chair. “Fifteen past one.”

  “Yes, LaCroy.”

  I fled the bedchamber.

  Jemina shut the door behind me. She and the countess had waited.

  Lady Shrewsbury offered a tsk with her teeth. “Well, that didn’t go as planned, but you’ve been hired. Jemina will work downstairs among the campers. And you, Patience—”

  “I’m going to get this one a bath.”

  “Good.” The woman rubbed Lionel’s arm. “But take care, the duke has agreed because he was disadvantaged. A commander will lose the battle but not the war. Be sharp around him. Do excellent jobs, or he’ll terminate you.”

  Jemina nodded, her brow furrowing. “Patience is with her baby, but what’s the plan, particularly with all the men and tents, and is that a cannon?”

  The crazy, hurt duke had turned Hamlin into a war zone.

  “Lady Shrewsbury, where do we begin?” I asked.

  “Gather the evidence that Markham has hidden in Hamlin that will prove why he needed to imprison you in Bedlam. The guard at the gate, who let us through, said Markham lingered for quite a long time. He was remiss to leave. The villain has something hidden in Hamlin. Find it.”

  The countess and Jemina headed down the steep stairs.

  I didn’t know what to make of distrusting dukes, cannons on the marble floor, or evidence. Everything for me was Lionel and getting him healthy. “Let’s go to the nursery.”

  Up the steep stairs, we danced onto the third floor. Once inside the nursery, I shut the door and looked at the smallish room I’d have to get in order. The tart odor of neglect was all about. The sconces needed dusting. “Lionel, this room will be the palace I dreamed for you.”

  Holding my baby, I spun round and round. In the light of the day, the teal walls blended with the hazel blue of my son’s eyes. He was all smiles, empty gums and all.

  Breathing a little fast, I caressed him. “I’m here with you now, Lionel, in the day. And I’m going to do what I can to stay with you till I get my trust documents. Then I’ll finance passage for a boat to Demerara. We’re going to be safe.”

  I pulled off the dirty linens and set my shawl in the crib for Lionel to lay upon.

  “Time for your bath, Lionel, and to make an ointment for that bottom.”

  Opening the window, I let a little fresh, cold air inside. The glimmer of Papa’s knife shined on the ledge. I stretched and put it in my pocket. It was good that it was here and not on my person when the duke inspected me. I wouldn’t have been allowed to keep it, and he’d think I was nefarious to have a weapon about a baby. Yet, until Lionel and I were at the docks in Demerara, we weren’t safe. This was a long war. The next battle would be fifteen past one.

  CHAPTER 9

  A VALET AND A VISCOUNT KNOW

  Thunder growled outside his bedchamber window. Busick muttered to himself and rubbed his hip. The sense of imminent rain ached his bones.

  Schedule change. No outdoor exercise today. A storm would come. Well, a second one. Shrewsbury and her young women were the first.

  He stretched on the edge of his disheveled bed. The new maid he hired, Mrs. St. Maur, had stripped it of its sheets before he could blink. That servant was a good, industrious hire, even if he’d made it under duress.

  The other one, LaCroy, was a different matter. Beautiful, deceptive, beautiful, bony elbows, nicely shaped . . . deceptive.

  Well, some things didn’t change, like him finding the niceties about a woman, even if she was a spy. One of Markham’s no doubt.

  Busick swiped at his freshly shaved jaw as he waited for the sharp pain in his back to settle. Sliding on his shirt even while seated still hurt sometimes. His valet left a half pour of rum atop his set of drawers. Rum eased the pain and left him with more sense of control than laudanum or the other medicines his physicians prescribed. He needed to keep his wits with spies and soldiers about.

  Gulping a full breath, he pushed up on his staff. Standing, he smoothed the shirttails into his breeches. Done. He’d relearned to do most of his dressing seated instead of standing in front of a mirror. Anyone coming through his door would probably notice no difference.

  Yanking his waistcoat off the chest of drawers, he looped it over his shoulder and swayed. He must look like a Morris dancer, a bad one. He’d been pretty good at preening with the latest feather at balls and private dinners. He was good at many things before Badajoz.

  Struggling to button his bone buttons and keep from keeling over, Busick grabbed the knurled edge of the dresser. The glass of rum shook. The desire to down it pressed. It was the only thing calling him to sanity when he couldn’t do things that felt normal, but today, he needed a clear head to deal with a spy.

  Being made a fool by a woman, a nanny in his household, was not normal. Far from it.

  A knock on his door left little time to straighten the bandaging to his leg. The straps and ribbons fastened at his thigh needed a little adjustment, but a quick glance showed he looked decent. “Come in.”

  Gantry pounded inside. “Duke, a young woman just shook me from my bed. Then I remembered the baby. I should’ve come and relieved you by . . . now.”

  The viscount was in need of a shave. His eyes were half-open as his neck swiveled from side to side. “Where’s the baby? Duke, what have you done?”

  Ahh. The joy of knowing something Gantry didn’t. Busick stretched his stiffening shoulder and pulled his cravat from the high back of the infernal invalid chair. “The babe is well. You should return to your room and get a few more hours of sleep. You look lost.”

  Gantry wiped at his eyes. “If I remember correctly, I left you with a baby, Duke. What did you do with him?” The viscount clasped the drawer pull on the chest of drawers. “You didn’t put him away like a cravat, did you?”

  “Of course not.” Busick put his hand on the ornately carved drawer, keeping it closed. “I didn’t fold him like a shirt, either. What do you take me for?”

  Seizing the glass of rum, Gantry emptied it. “Sorry, I’m not fully awake. But you’re up and shaven. Where’s Master Jordan?”

  Now was the time to look steady as a swan and pretend he did not stop his friend from opening the drawer. Probably needed more rum in that glass to dull the viscount’s wits.

  “The babe is fine. He’s with the nanny upstairs, one I hired a few hours ago but must terminate now. Could you help me with my jacket? My valet left it over there, hooked to the bedpost.”

  Gantry’s face became a mash of questions, but he moved, collected the jacket, and held it out.

  Sliding one arm in the tailcoat of dark indigo and doing a little hop to tug the other sleeve in place, Busick then took a large breath. “Hopefully the rain will stop, and we’ll lead the troops through outdoor exercises tomorrow. Maybe my ward will w
atch, too.”

  Gantry pushed a hand through his hair and swept aside his too long locks. “One, it’s not raining yet. Two, your ward cannot walk. Three. Why terminate the nanny you just hired? It’s not that Mrs. Kelly.”

  “No, not her. A new one.” The way Busick’s thigh ached, it would rain today. But he couldn’t say that without sparking questions of his injury. “My valet is excellent at barbering. He could fix all that hair and put you back into military precision.”

  “I served my time. My wife, she likes it . . . long.” Gantry shuffled his feet and looked down. “The length is fine.”

  Busick noticed this was the first time he’d brought the wife up after weeks of not mentioning her. “We both know how to avoid talking of things, but you can tell me anything.”

  “And you’ll do the same? Starting with why you can’t spend a week or two resting, getting to know your ward, before doing drills. You’re stunting your recovery. It’s been almost two years since Badajoz, and you’re still on a crutch. You must keep reinjur-ing yourself by not giving the bone the proper time to heal.”

  Responding in anger would make things worse, especially when he needed Gantry’s help. “I’ll rest when things are settled. But this morning, I hired a maid and a spy. Patience LaCroy has infiltrated my household. You must find a replacement nanny.”

  “LaCroy? She’s related to Markham’s footman from last night?”

  “The footman last night was a footwoman.”

  “Truly a spy?” As if Gantry couldn’t decide what to do, he folded his arms and sank against the dresser. “He was a she? Are you sure?”

  Oh, Busick was sure Mrs. LaCroy was all woman. Curly auburn hair that looped behind dainty ears. Brown eyes of the deepest topaz and a figure full of curves . . . Well, none of that gave her away as the footman, but the unmistakable cleft in her chin on her heart-shaped face was the concluding evidence. That and his valet asking how he had theater makeup on his coat.

  “Yes, Gantry, my nanny was the footman.”

  “Duke, are you sure? Are we that out of practice socializing?”

  The past years left little time for women.

  Avoiding his wayward mother’s attention took up the rest. A hint of an injury would bring forth Lady Bodonel’s “caring” role. She’d find a way to enable a compromise with some socialite’s daughter for those grandchildren she claimed to want. But what she actually longed for was access to better parties, ones his union to a lady with the right connections would solicit.

  “Yes to both. We are hermits, and she’s a spy. Is she working for Markham or someone else. Maybe Colin’s debtors?”

  The viscount rubbed his jaw. “Not that it makes any sense, but why would a spy want the baby? And why did you give the boy to him—her?”

  Why had Busick?

  Was his vanity that great?

  Or was it the sorrow in her eyes when she lay upon him, like her world would burst if he refused her. “I suspect she’s harmless but here to feed some information to someone.”

  “And you are now dressed, shaved, and in one of your best coats to do what? Interrogate the lady spy?”

  Busick fiddled with the buttons of his waistcoat again, pushing the disks through holes. “I’m not sure, but I’ll need you to find a new wet nurse if I don’t get the answers I want.”

  Gantry tapped the empty glass and smirked. “Well, if you are going to go interrogating, you’ll need sleeve buttons.” He yanked open the drawer and steeped his hands into cravats . . . and that mechanical thing, that awful thing.

  Busick wasn’t quick enough to stop the viscount. He should’ve remembered that Gantry was similar to himself, not letting anything go until he’d found answers.

  The silence deafened.

  Then Busick heard his heart beat loud, loud, louder than the thunder outside. He counted the seconds for his friend to ask his questions.

  Why didn’t Busick say he needed an amputee’s stump?

  Does it hurt? Does he need to be coddled?

  But Gantry didn’t lift his head. He poked at the leather strings attached to the lifeless piece of wood carved to take the place of a limb.

  The fasteners itched and pinched when Busick strapped it to the stump that remained of his leg.

  “I think my valet put the buttons in the second drawer.”

  Gantry closed up the top one. “You’re right. No sleeve buttons here. You’re good without . . . them. I’ll keep looking.”

  Busick kept his gaze steady. No signs of weakness or hesitation would show. He wasn’t defined by a leg. He was competent and in command, but others decided with their dour eyes and sappy pity that he was no longer of use. “Yes, do so. Check the second drawer. I’m good, but sleeve buttons will make me perfect.”

  Gantry frowned, but still refrained from asking the things he must want to know.

  So Busick decided he’d answer. “Badajoz. It took a year for the nerves to stop throbbing like fire and many more months to balance and then walk. Almost two years to mostly recover. And it will rain.” He slapped his thigh. “What’s left of this leg says so. Anything else you haven’t asked but want to know?”

  A knock at the door ended this one-sided staring match.

  “Your Grace, may I come in? It’s Mrs. St. Maur.”

  “A moment, ma’am.”

  The viscount located a pair of pearl sleeve buttons. “Is that the spy?”

  “Not that one. Well, Mrs. St. Maur could be an accomplice. Their letters are on that chair.”

  The invalid chair, where he’d spent a year, more when he had setbacks.

  “Take those letters of recommendation and investigate. See if I need to terminate both women.”

  The knocks became more urgent. Mrs. St. Maur beat upon the door. “I have fresh linens. They’re heavy.”

  “Impossible, Gantry. The woman just took up the bedsheets barely an hour ago. They are in this together.” He started tying his cravat. “Come in.”

  The door opened, and Mrs. St. Maur entered with a bundle of linens. “It won’t take me long to dress your bed, sir. And don’t mind the piles in the hall. I have a great deal of rooms to clean. We’ll have rooms for all your men. No need for tents.”

  “Where did you find—”

  “Your Grace, Mrs. LaCroy sent soldiers into the catacombs to retrieve trunks.”

  Lips thinning as if he now put stock into what Busick said, the viscount fastened the sleeve buttons, one in each of Busick’s white cuffs. “How would she know where to look? Or even to look there? Duke, I guess she really is a sp—”

  “Special, Gantry. The word is special. It seems Nanny LaCroy might be a little too clever.”

  “She is clever, sir,” said Mrs. St. Maur. The maid beat at wrinkles in the bedsheets. “She’s very smart and very kind.”

  “See that, Gantry, I’ve hired a clever and kind nanny.”

  “Those are good requirements.” The viscount caught Busick’s arm as he tried to pass. “Do you know what you are doing?”

  “Yes. It’s ten after one. I have five minutes to make it to the third floor to see my nanny. Wish her luck.”

  Frowning, Gantry adjusted Busick’s collar, smoothing it. “For what?”

  “That LaCroy passes inspection. I think it will be difficult to find another nanny so quickly. It would be a shame to terminate her on her first day.”

  In the mirror, he saw his comment had the effect he wanted.

  Mrs. St. Maur clasped her hands in prayer, but Jove wouldn’t save them. The women needed to know he was onto their games. He’d not be made a fool by anyone.

  His friend stepped in front of him again. “You think you should be going up those steep stairs? I could bring her down to the drawing room.”

  He punch-patted Gantry’s forearm. “No, mother hen. And you should head back to bed and sleep for a few more hours. Hopefully, Mrs. St. Maur—when she finishes up in here—will make some of the delightful bread she talked of earlier. Everyone needs a good dinn
er before the day ends.”

  “Yes, sir.” The woman’s frown became bigger, and she slapped at the sheet like it was a person; hopefully not Busick. “But it’s Mrs. LaCroy who’s the bread maker.”

  He powered through the threshold. “Off to my appointment.”

  Gantry followed him out and again put a hand to his shoulder. “Sorry, Your Grace. I’m truly sorry.”

  Busick’s jaw tightened, and he clutched his crutch tighter. “Just another challenge. You know I like challenges.”

  His friend nodded. “You’re good at blustering through things.”

  Gantry’s words stung, along with his glance. It wasn’t a soldier’s deference to his commanding officer, or soldier to soldier, or peer to peer. It was the fretful look of the doctor saying the leg had to come off.

  He’d rather a look of annoyance than pity. “I’m fine, Gantry. Go get some sleep. You’ve earned it.”

  As LaCroy earned a firing for being a spy. Sad eyes and a fine figure wouldn’t save her.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE NURSERY

  Stairs were awful, evil things.

  That was Busick’s new opinion of them. The steep treads to the third floor were nearly impossible. He hastened his steps, but midway up, he tired and slowed his rhythm—breath held, crutch pointed, strain, breath released. Again. He repeated this until he’d reached the third level.

  He started to pull out his watch to see how slow his timing had been but decided against it. Since Busick set the schedules, he’d break them today.

  At the nursery door, as softly as possible, he pushed it open.

  His pique diminished at the sweet scent of lavender.

  Freshness. He pushed inside.

  Piles of sheets lay on the floor, balled and rolled up as if there had been a struggle. Doors to a wardrobe lay open. Drawers pulled out and emptied. It was chaos as if she’d been looking for something.

  Then he spied the crib.

  It had been polished and scented with orange oil. His soldier lay fast asleep on fresh sheets. The little fellow’s snore was sweet, like a tune cranked from his mother’s music box.

  The nanny spy had her back to him, and she looked out the window. Her chin was raised, and whatever she saw through those wide eyes held her captive.