A Duke, the Lady, and a Baby

by Vanessa Riley

  Easing a little more into the room, he couldn’t help but admire her profile. Long auburn tresses, curly and thick, had escaped her mobcap and rested upon a slim neck. Her posture was straight, as if she’d been taught to do so. A printed fabric of blue checks draped gentle curves that screamed woman.

  How could he ever have thought LaCroy was a man? Busick’s senses must be slipping.

  Stepping closer, he noted her lengthy lashes. They could curl about Lionel’s pinkie, maybe Busick’s, too.

  How long he studied her, he didn’t know. But her appeal had nothing to do with her hiring status. “The room doesn’t pass inspection, Mrs. LaCroy.”

  She didn’t look at him. Her face remained steady toward the glass. “I have to start with the basics, Your Grace. Everything must be cleaned and dusted. Nothing in here was up to my standards, so I know it fails yours.”

  Oh, she was a good spy. For how would she know what he liked? He stepped over one of the piles. “I despise disorder. This reeks of disorder.”

  “It r-reeked of a great deal more. Once I’m done, it will r-reek no more.”

  The rolling of the r sound was faint and soothing like a stream lapping upon the shore. This woman had spent some time abroad, but where? Spain? One of England’s colonies?

  “I trust that you’ll have this done in a timely fashion.”

  “I will, sir.”

  He cleared his throat, but she still did not turn. Her attention remained committed to what was outside the glass. “I’ve come to talk . . . about schedules.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Her voice sounded tired, and her gaze remained distant.

  A panic stirred inside near his well-developed sense of vanity. Maybe she couldn’t look at him. Perhaps she, like Gantry, couldn’t engender respect because of his injuries.

  Anger stirred in Busick’s gut. A missing limb didn’t limit his abilities. It did not change his stature. He navigated closer. “I’m your employer. I demand your full attention. I’m due that.”

  When she turned, there were tears in her eyes. Those polished stones leaked, and his heart shook.

  It seemed as if he intruded, but on what? Was it grief for her lost child? Something else?

  “What has captured your attention so completely? I was able to come fully inside the nursery without you stirring.”

  Her lips twitched then moved up as if she’d just remembered to smile. “Memories, Your Grace. Some hold on a little too tightly. I’m sorry I’m not attentive.”

  Her voice was winsome, and Busick remembered the countess said she’d lost her own baby and husband. That had to be true, for sadness like this, those quivering leaky eyes couldn’t be feigned. Her season of stolen joy must be terribly sad and recent.

  A knot formed in Busick’s gut, forcing him to think of his fallen lieutenant’s wife. No one could stop her from seeing her husband cut down by cannon fire. And no one, not even Busick, could prevent her when she took up her husband’s sword and charged the enemy.

  He blinked, sniffed the orange polish, and forced away the remembrance of war. “My sympathy goes out to you, Mrs. LaCroy, but we must speak of our situation.”

  Wide, delicious eyes, orbs of topaz with hints of honey gold and henna stared at him. It felt as if an assassin had marked him. A small part of him didn’t mind being in the line of fire, her fire.

  “Yes, Duke. We’re not ready for your inspection.” She moved to the crib. Her steps were graceful—chin held high, shoulders level—so very tall for a woman.

  “And Master Lionel, he didn’t seem to want to keep your schedule. He went to sleep after his sudsy bath.”

  He looked again at the baby swaddled in fresh linens. The whisks of jet-black hair had been brushed to the center of his head and tied with a green bow, like Gantry’s. “The boy seems at ease, but was the ribbon necessary?”

  “He’s too young for a top hat, and he’s c-catching his hair in his nails and scratching. The bow will work for now. He’s far too young for his first b-barbering.”

  Her voice sounded stronger, but a few of her words meshed with stuttered breaths.

  Busick started to rethink her termination. He didn’t want to be her next disappointment, the thing that made tears leave her sweet eyes. “At what age do you suggest cutting his hair?”

  “Six. He’ll have a wonderful head of hair for the first trimming.”

  “Nooo. He doesn’t have to wait until he’s breeched.”

  She pivoted. Lines riddled her forehead. “He’s already born. How can he go back to be a breeched baby? What do you know about infants?”

  How did the conversation change to be about Busick? He swayed a little as he lifted his hand to his temple. “You’re not from England are you, LaCroy? For a boy to be breeched is a term of elevation. At age six, he transitions from pinafores to pantaloons. Where are you from?”

  “A little colony of no consequence.”

  “You’ve never been a nanny before. Have you, LaCroy?”

  “Never needed to be one. Sir.”

  The way she tossed in sir was as if she remembered herself and who was employer and employee. Well, employer for the moment.

  “I suspect my Lionel will have his first set of man’s clothes and a haircut, early. Maybe in a few years. With my training, he’ll excel.”

  He put his palm on the boy’s head. It was warm, not with fever but from rest. The lad was at peace. “So much to look forward to with this little one.”

  When he glanced at her, there were more tears in her eyes. She blinked heavily. “Do we pass enough of your inspection, Your Grace?”

  “You seem to be getting the nursery in order.” He ran a finger along the edge of the crib’s carved rail. “No dust.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes, for now. There’s more cleaning to be done.”

  Bad news was best served cold, direct, no emotion. But he had an emotion about her, about terminating a teary-eyed woman who’d polished bed rails and put bows in his ward’s hair. Wrong. It felt wrong.

  Good thing he never listened to feelings. “How long did you intend to go along with this act, footman?”

  Mrs. LaCroy brushed at her face, that cleft in her chin. “As long as it was convenient.”

  He kept his jaw from dropping. “I didn’t think you’d admit to things so easily. At least humor me and ask how I figured it out?”

  She clasped her bony elbows as if needing to do something with her hands. “If you must, tell me of your brilliance. You never forget a face, especially one brought in such close proximity.”

  “No, your falling all over me wasn’t . . . Well, your knees and bony elbows were uncomfortable. And you’re correct. I don’t forget a face, even one disguised in white paint. Not with that delightful cleft in your chin. But knowing where to send my men to retrieve trunks from the catacombs was your downfall. You’ve spent time there before. You’ve worked here.”

  He moved and sank into the rocking chair close to the crib and eased his crutch to the floor, next to the broken shell of a coconut.

  Coconut?

  Poking at the smashed-up white flesh, the dark, thick outer husk, he shook his head, then looked up at LaCroy. “A newly hired woman wouldn’t know this. What will you do with coconuts?”

  “Lots of things. It’s a dependable drupe. You would call it a stone fruit or nut.”

  “No, ma’am, I’d never call a nut dependable.”

  She glared at him, those hands now flexing at her sides. “Linens, clean linens are needed. Mrs. St. Maur has buckets of scrubbing, including your shirts. And this baby seems to have been on dirty sheets far too long. Oil from the coconut is for his bottom. You did notice how red it was?”

  “I just cleaned and wrapped. That wasn’t right?”

  “You did good.” She smiled a little. “Your shirts are the cleanest thing he may have worn in weeks.” She sniffled, and a big fat tear rolled to the tip of her arched nose.

  Some women didn’t cry and look bea
utiful, but LaCroy did. And her face looked tanned and healthy without the paint she’d worn last night. Her complexion was smooth, a little darker than Lionel’s. Was she mulatto or Blackamoor or both?

  It didn’t matter, when she looked like a choice rose sprinkled in morning dew. He dug into his pocket and handed her a handkerchief. “Please stop crying. It’s so much easier to dismiss a soldier. This almost feels like the end of a courtship.”

  That made her frown and stepped away. “What?”

  He raked a hand through his hair hoping to tighten his skull and keep more stray thoughts from uttering. “You admit to working here. You purposely tried to deceive—”

  “I told you I’d reapply in the morning. That’s what I did.”

  Well, that was what she said last night.

  Busick raised his hand to complain but instead clasped the chair arm and rocked. “Why dress as a man?”

  Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “You were right. I was here. I worked hard, but I could not stand, Mark . . . Mr. Markham. He put the things needed for efficient running of the house down in the catacombs. I knew exactly where he’d tossed the linens and things for the baby. Unfortunately, the elements and dampness have gotten to some. There’re more trunks down there, but I don’t think they have linens. I’ll need to go to Town to get more for the baby unless you’ve come to Hamlin with an endless supply of shirts.”

  The energy in her voice extinguished all his thoughts of LaCroy spying for Markham. She was dedicated to the care of the boy. Passionate about it. Isn’t that what he wanted in a nanny?

  He felt foolish and looked at his content, snoring ward. “That answers some of my questions. But why dress as a man?”

  A smile spread across her lips and even stretched to her eyes, adding a sparkle like freshly glossed boots. “What’s easier to spot, a woman coming and going through the catacombs or a man?”

  “You chose a disguise to find bedding and baby things because you hate Markham. I don’t think so, LaCroy. I think—”

  The baby started crying.

  Busick wanted to pick him up and comfort him as he’d done last night, but the chair moved when he tried to get out.

  Mrs. LaCroy cut in front of him. Without asking, she scooped Lionel up and held him to her bosom. She rocked him until his cries stopped. “We’re talking too loudly.”

  “Letting go of employees is nasty business. It will be well, little soldier. The secretive lady will be leaving. I’ll get you a new one, one who can be honest.”

  She half turned and Busick panicked. He was stuck in the chair, and she was about to feed the babe. As much as he was an admirer of the female form, some things needed to be private.

  “ ‘Il était un petit navire. Il était un petit navire.’ ” She sang the words, her voice low and pretty.

  Lionel stretched and hooked a pinkie upon LaCroy’s full lips.

  Then she stopped singing and looked at Busick as if he’d caught her doing something wrong. “I’ll do this in English. English is better for you.” Again, she sang, “ ‘There was once a little boat. There was once a little boat.’ ”

  “But it was lovely in French, LaCroy. ‘Ohé! Ohé! Matelot.’ ”

  Her eyes brightened, and he sang her tune a little louder. Bits of gold shone like shooting stars in the darkness of her irises.

  He liked surprising her.

  Then he switched to English. “ ‘Ahoy! Ahoy! Sailor, sailor sailing on the high sea.’ ” He paused and pursed his lips. “Should we sing Lionel a lullaby about a shipwreck? One where the men . . . the sailors eventually eat each other? I hardly think it appropriate.”

  “My friend, Mrs. St. Maur, she hums it often. I suppose if you examined it closely, one wonders how something so sad could become a child’s lullaby.”

  “True, but maybe it was made for boys. We require adventure.” He gave up trying to get out of the chair and relaxed as she sang more.

  Then Lionel snored, and the world was perfect again, except here was a woman, a kind woman, a woman who’d be sweet to his ward even when Busick wasn’t looking, and he had to terminate her employment. “So, what am I to do, LaCroy?”

  He swept his gaze over her, neat in her finely button-up gown of blue checks, her spotless white apron. “I do think I like you better as a girl.”

  “If I hadn’t been so clumsy or if I hadn’t bothered to assist you to the stairs, you wouldn’t recognize me, and I wouldn’t be facing unemployment.”

  “I would have figured it out. I’m very observant. And being up close in my face twice, without a wig and with your figure free . . . Did I say I liked you better as a girl?”

  “Yes. Well, thank you, I think.” Her lips curled up, but was that for Lionel or him?

  It didn’t matter. He reached for his crutch. He should stand for this last part. “This is unfortunate, for we are back to where we were last night. Me having to terminate you.”

  “What, no option for a loyalty oath?”

  “Your mother taught you not to swear, remember.”

  “If I learned more from her, maybe I’d have better fortunes. I can be loyal. And look at your ward, he’s clean and happy.”

  “It’s a bad precedent. I make an exception for you, then what lapses will I allow next? It’s obvious you’ve worked here before, and I terminated all who did.”

  “Then rehire me.” She set the baby back into the crib and picked up the crutch he’d been struggling to grasp with the chair moving.

  He caught her palm. “Why were you sneaking in and out of Hamlin? Why risk your employment here?”

  Her eyes, her luminous eyes, looked away. “I can’t sleep sometimes. This property is very convenient to where the countess put me when she took me in.”

  “And dressing as a footman does what? Keep men from bothering you?”

  She slid her hand from his. “I don’t like to be bothered, and I’m not one to beg, not to a man who’s made up his mind. At least keep me on until you find another wet nurse.”

  “Do something to assure me that you can be trusted. Convince me. Can’t you see that I want a reason to go against my rules?”

  “I hate rules. I despise them. I’m suffocated by them.”

  “This is not helping your cause, Mrs. LaCroy.”

  Her neck, lovely and long, tilted to the side. Was she studying him? Were his buttons misaligned?

  She knelt before him.

  His pulse ticked up. She was close, and his mind stuck at the no begging. “Please—”

  Everything stopped when she put a hand on his knee. He didn’t feel her warm fingers. She’d chosen the leg that was missing a knee, a shin, a foot.

  She straightened the stuffed form his valet had made to look like a heavily bandaged foot. It had twisted with his fumbling to get out of the chair. His deception had worked until this moment.

  He waited for the questions that always came.

  But none did.

  No gasp, no awkward pause. “The knot seems to have slipped; I almost have it, Your Grace.”

  Did he stop breathing when her nimble fingers searched his thigh? That he did feel, as much as the twinges of what was missing, the aches and itches where flesh had been sutured. The doctors said the searing jabs were normal and would lessen, and they had, except on days like today when it looked like rain.

  Her ring finger, the one with a simple silver band, found the knot of his straps and tugged it higher, adjusting the ribbon under his breeches.

  “I can be trusted, Your Grace. And I won’t let you go about your duties poorly served. Or have a house bared of linens when I know the solution would put my position in jeopardy.”

  The unmasking was not just his to do. She’d figured out his secret and was clever enough to know sending his men to the catacombs would bring her trouble.

  When she rose, the gentle slow movement was like a queen’s, as if she’d stooped to expose him. Was she above every conspiracy running through his head?

  “Yo
ur Grace, it’s time to feed your ward. I must ask you to leave. I’ll stay until you find a proper replacement. I’ll even go to Town and help stock up supplies for Master Lionel’s care. There are things he should have.”

  “Make a list. I’ll see to the items.” He pushed up onto his crutch and moved to the door.

  She slipped past him and held it open. “Do we have an understanding?”

  Why did it feel as if she’d turned the tables? And why did he become a little more lost in wide eyes that held no scorn, or shock, or disgust. He edged through the threshold. “Yes. You shall stay a day or two, but I will find a suitable replacement. Keep waging the war to make the nursery pass inspection. Tomorrow at one o’clock, when you set the babe down for his nap, come to the study. We can go over Lionel’s schedule.”

  She nodded and closed the door on him, leaving him leering at the paneled wood like a witless fool.

  But his questions remained.

  Why would she be sneaking about Hamlin? What other secrets had she unearthed? And how would he pay for allowing her to stay a couple more days?

  Gantry would find a replacement nanny, even if it meant allowing LaCroy to stay a week or two. Given more time, the widow might make a full confession. Keeping her around shouldn’t cost him too much.

  CHAPTER 11

  SIXTH DAY ON THE JOB

  I hummed as I looked at Lionel asleep in his crib. He’d suckled a bigger breakfast than he had the past two days, even bigger than the first day in my old . . . in the duke’s bedchamber.

  Misty-eyed, I folded the rest of Lionel’s clean linens listening to his snores.

  Last one done and stowed in his wardrobe, I stretched, looking about this room that was once our prison. It never made sense why Markham locked me and Lionel in here. Maybe he thought the isolation and my grief would break me.

  Nothing would break me when it came to protecting Lionel. I’d defy all who tried.

  Shaking my head, I focused on the beautiful sea-blue walls and the large shells I again displayed on the wardrobe. The conch with its colors of pink and gold were one of the treasures I’d brought from home. The room looked like how I had wanted for Lionel, clean with his crib fashioned as a ship’s berth. He was the captain, the master of his fate.