A Duke, the Lady, and a Baby

by Vanessa Riley

  An older fellow in cranberry regimentals stepped inside. “Yes, sir.”

  Lord Gantry put his hat to his side. “I can’t stand women carrying things, particularly heavy bundles. I helped Mrs. St. Maur carry at least ten large platters to the scullery yesterday. Captain, if any of the ladies have need of anything, I expect you to continue to aid them. Pass the word around.”

  The soldier nodded. “I’ll help where I can with my one good hand. The captain at the front door has both his. Well, most of them, just missing a thumb. But I’ll make sure everyone knows to help.”

  A quick glance at his padded jacket arm confirmed the truth.

  The duke hadn’t hired mercenary soldiers merely to storm Hamlin or prepare for a fake invasion. He’d employed wounded men, probably ones sent home from the fight. From the smile on this soldier’s face—his lifted jaw, the proud dimples, Repington had given them hope.

  That was priceless.

  That was honorable.

  I choked up a little, thinking how decent of a fellow the duke was. It was most inconvenient to gain more respect for the man I was forced to deceive.

  Smoothing my apron, searching for pockets in my jet gown, I cleared my throat. “Thank you, sirs. Mrs. St. Maur and I try to be industrious. And, Captain, thank the men who went down into the catacombs for supplies.”

  “Just make some more of that sweet bread, and we’ll be at your service.”

  His easy posture returned to attention, and he saluted the viscount, then moved to the door.

  I pulled a cloth from my pocket and began wiping smudges from the sideboard. When I turned, Lord Gantry was still there.

  “Is there something you wanted, sir?”

  “Nothing,” he said. He fingered the ribbon anchoring his shoulder-length hair, brownish chestnut and wild if not for the ebony tie. “You remind me of someone. Coconut bread, that was a particular favorite of hers.”

  The distant look in his blue-gray eyes—he wasn’t thinking of my masquerading as a footman. He’d lost someone dear.

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” I said, before I could stop myself. “It’s always difficult missing someone.”

  The viscount nodded. “You just don’t know how much you miss a person or what you’ll miss until they are gone.”

  He blinked and startled as he’d realized he’d been wistful aloud. “My apologies.”

  Lord Gantry withdrew at a fast clip, disappearing into the hall.

  I moved to the pianoforte, swiping at the dust. The trust documents my father gave me were hidden in the big desk in the false back, a compartment I’d found within my first ten months at Hamlin, while Colin visited Town.

  There had to be enough money in the trust that I could draw quickly to secure passage for three to Demerara.

  With the duke heading here any moment, I couldn’t get them now and risk being caught and looking like a thief. Timing was everything. When it was right, I’d have them.

  Away from here, I could stop dreaming and asking those questions about Colin, about Colin and me, about what went wrong. And I certainly needed to be gone from Hamlin before I started asking questions about upstanding dukes and the nannies who fancied them.

  My cloth had become dark with dust. The olive patina of the pianoforte’s lid shined when given proper care. I swiveled to the mirror to do the same.

  “You look very fine, Mrs. LaCroy, you don’t have to peek in the looking glass for confirmation.”

  The duke had crossed into the room. “But do wipe Markham’s fingerprints from the mirror. I think he tried to take it with him.”

  “When did he do that?”

  “The night I seized Hamlin. I left him cowering in here when there was an uproar in the hall. But you know the chaos of Markham’s household.” He sailed his hat to the sofa, a perfect pitch with it landing on the center cushion. “You never told me why you worked for Markham.”

  I took my cloth to the beautiful edge of the gilded mirror and swiped at the delicate filigree, making certain the grubby prints were banished. “Chaos, you say. The man knows how to soil things.”

  The duke came farther into the room. His movements were quiet. The strain in his jaw showed the great effort it cost to make his footfalls silent. “Selective hearing? You don’t have to tell me, but it remains another secret you’re keeping from me.”

  I didn’t reply and instead put more effort into shining the mirror, testing how it rocked. I’d never noticed that before. Something was behind it.

  Repington moved to the sofa and started to lower himself but stopped. “This thing is very comfortable and too soft. It’s almost as difficult to get out of as the rocker in the nursery.”

  Hmmm. Was that how I’d take Lionel? Leave the duke stranded on the sofa? No. That wouldn’t do.

  Arriving at the big desk, he rested against it. “Should we talk schedules or your resignation?”

  “Schedules, Your Grace, unless you’ve changed your mind again. I hear that is something men in your position do.”

  His brow scrunched. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing in particular, but aren’t men of your ilk flexible, given to whims?”

  “My ilk?”

  “R-rakes, sir. Lady Shrewsbury explained . . . your popularity.”

  His face lit up like the grand chandelier shining with strength and joy. “I suppose popularity can make one flexible. Sit, LaCroy.”

  I stuffed my rag in my pocket and came to the chair he pointed to, a nice mahogany klismos seat. One I’d ordered.

  He rubbed his hip. “Don’t know about flexibility anymore, changeable perhaps. Is this an appealing trait?”

  “Not at the moment, Your Grace. Your flexibility is quite frustrating. You offer employment at night and rescind it in the day. It’s quite taxing.”

  He chuckled and swiped at his hair. It was thick and definitely more brown today than blond. But the eyes he cast upon me, they were ever clever and clear. Clear like ice or glass prisms made to sparkle.

  He leaned forward. “I wonder what other offers you’ve had extended, then rescinded. Never mind. It’s just one more question I have about you that shall torture me.” He pulled his hands together. “I’m still revising a schedule for Lionel. Until a replacement is found, if I decide to find one, you’ll need to comply with my requirements.”

  “May I ask, Your Grace, that you make up your mind about this termination business or please stop repeating it. Do you want me to dread seeing you?”

  “No. I’d rather you not. I’m looking for a reason to decide firmly in your favor. Other than being dishonest when we met, you seem to be a very kind woman and very loving toward my ward. You and Mrs. St. Maur work hard. Instead of remaining idle in the nursery where no one would bother you, you’ve come down and helped with the washing and cooking. The men are raving about your food.”

  Was he truly torn, or merely toying with me? I looked down and kicked my slippers against the leg of the big old desk.

  “Help me, Mrs. LaCroy. I don’t want you to dread seeing me.” His voice was soft and sweet like honey. “I’d rather you’d enjoy spending time with me . . . in the mutual care and concern of Lionel.”

  The way he looked at me, it was as if he meant something else. Maybe this notion was only in my head. I was never a good judge of intentions or feelings. Or men.

  “I have a question, ma’am.”

  His countenance remained a cross between a repentant fellow and a scalawag. Now I had to know his thoughts. “What type of question?”

  “A personal one.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Your husband, how did he die—sickness, the war, old age?”

  “Sickness.” That was a way to put it that sounded nice and noble, not wrenching to my gut or difficult and guilt-ridden.

  The duke clasped my fingers. “Mrs. LaCroy, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

  Was I? I touched my wet cheeks. “My husband’s death was unexpected.”

  “How would you
have told your child about him?”

  This was so personal. I leaped up. “Enough. I beg you, please stop these questions. They’re intrusive.”

  The duke clasped his palms together as if in prayer, a supplicant’s prayer to some English god of nosiness. The African and island ones knew better than to pick at scabs.

  “I meant no offense.”

  “Truly?” I folded my arms, glaring at the man who could banish me, but the right words, the appeasing ones defied my tongue. “You did cause offense. Meaning and doing are two different things.”

  “I apologize, Mrs. LaCroy. I just know someday that little boy upstairs will ask about his father. As a mulatto child, his path will be more difficult. I don’t want to say something to make things worse or to not be the encourager he’ll need.”

  In Demerara, with my father’s wealth, the boy would be a prince. “Perhaps you should send him to a place where he’ll be respected.”

  “Send him away or trot the boy out for parties to show him off, pretending to be a saintly mother.”

  “Mother?”

  He hooked his palm about the base of his neck like he’d developed a headache. “Please sit, Mrs. LaCroy. I’m going to have to tell him something. I know nothing of his mother other than she was a plantation owner’s daughter. I grew up with a sickly father, a strong grandfather, but my cousin, poor Lionel’s father . . . He committed suicide.”

  I sat stunned at the anguish in his voice. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. There was talk that Jordan’s finances were careless, that Markham forced him into unwise financial schemes.”

  A deep, dry sigh escaped the duke. “Careless finances are not heroic and not worth the sacrifice of a life. It’s not the same as dying for God, king, and country.”

  The edge in his words mirrored my hurt and how often I had to balance my sadness with selfishness—it was selfish of Colin to leave us, selfish of me to want him to stay when he was so unhappy.

  I sank against the chair, letting the angel’s harp be my spine. “I wish Colin Jordan had been more heroic, like you or the men you employ.”

  The duke rubbed his jaw. “I’m not a hero. I was lucky. I had a duty to perform. That kept me going, but I understand the disappointments that can make a man think his life is worthless. The struggle is hard. Some don’t make the right choice. I wish I had been available to help my cousin.”

  “You’ll find the words.” Not that I intended to let Lionel stay in England that long. I twisted my apron, but all I could see was my white stationery and that last letter I’d written to my husband—telling him my hurts, all of them. I shouldn’t have written it. He couldn’t withstand the truth.

  My cheeks burned, then a leak from my eyes put out the flames. I hadn’t thought of how to tell Lionel about Colin. I didn’t want my boy to think ill of his papa. Or that my letter had killed him.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. LaCroy. I didn’t mean—”

  Swatting at my tears, I waved at the duke before he could offer platitudes. Evidence of Markham’s conspiracy would prove that his scheme caused Colin’s death, not me. He was the last to be with Colin. Markham had to be the final stone that forced my husband into the depths of the Thames.

  “Mrs. LaCroy?”

  “Tell Lionel his father was sick, and the sickness led him to be misguided. That he sunk to a place no love could reach him. And that if he lived, he would’ve loved Lionel. Tell the precious boy that.”

  A handkerchief dangled in front of my face. I took it and wiped my tears.

  When I looked up, I saw my reflection in the duke’s clear blue eyes. His gaze held me in place.

  I felt caressed, embraced, understood.

  But the man hadn’t moved.

  His arms were mercifully at his sides. “LaCroy, I’m changing my mind again. We’ll take your employment month by month. Gantry will need to get back to his daughters in a few weeks. When he’s in Town, he can solicit agencies for a proper replacement.”

  “Wonderful, I have a whole month.”

  “We’ll see how we—you and I—work together. I need to ask another question.”

  “Haven’t you had your fill?” I waved at him to proceed as I snorted into his handkerchief.

  “Was Lionel’s mother here when you were hired?”

  Tell him. Tell the duke and end this farce.

  “Your Grace . . .”

  “Yes, Mrs. LaCroy?”

  He glanced at me, and again I was captive, this time with fear.

  The duke would turn me out for playing another masquerade.

  Or he’d not believe me, thinking I was a crazed widow who tried to claim another child as her own. I bit my lip a moment and told the truth he’d accept. “Markham hated her. He rid the place of her. I think that’s how he put it.”

  “Or the woman ran off. Depressed over my cousin, she might have run away.” His head lowered for a moment. “I have one more thing to ask.”

  “Another ting . . . thing? Go ahead, by all means. Read me like a book of sport.”

  “A Shakespeare reference, Troilus and Cressida. Such a learned nanny. What other surprises do you have?”

  Lord Gantry knocked along the threshold. “Repington, sorry to interrupt, but your box is here.”

  “Oh, good. Mrs. LaCroy, we’ll need to continue this conversation later.” He popped up and dropped in the chair behind the desk. “This will be such an improvement to the outside.”

  My stomach flip-flopped. I’d been dismissed for a box. I swiped at my eyes. “What needs improvement? You’ve cleared snow, even trimmed the brush that awakened in the warmer weather.”

  His impish smile returned. “You’ll have to wait. You’re not the only one with secrets. Good day, Mrs. LaCroy.”

  I’d been set aside. Lord Gantry and the duke ogling a wooden box meant sending me away like Colin had when I interrupted that last loud meeting.

  My rise from the chair was slow. I watched as an outsider to the glee the men shared, spreading out the mysterious papers coming from the box.

  I looked away, my eyes catching the sparkle of the silvered glass.

  The mirror.

  The one that held Markham’s fingerprints.

  There was a secret behind it. This one could set me free.

  Finding time to get to it was all that mattered. I would not be distracted by the duke’s questions or the feeling he actually cared about my tears.

  CHAPTER 13

  STORMY NIGHTS

  A storm raged throughout the night, but that wasn’t what kept Busick awake.

  He took a swig of his rum. His leg had ached all afternoon from the vigorous marching regimen. Now this turn in the weather set him in agony—rain, more snow. The change brought pain.

  His back felt stiff, achy.

  Maybe he was doing too much outdoors.

  But inside the house had its own dangers.

  Nanny LaCroy was dangerous. Always surprising him with her candor and that calm sense of rebellion.

  A faint cry sounded over his head.

  The nursery was above. Had the storm frightened Lionel?

  For Busick, being in Hamlin had always made it hard to sleep. Maybe it was that way for Lionel.

  He pulled on his dressing gown, taking care with his sore back. The last thing he needed was for it to begin aching so much he couldn’t keep his balance.

  He stared at the invalid chair.

  The three-wheeled monster propelled easier on hardwoods than carpet, but it was stable and dependable.

  His hand tightened about his crutch.

  The contraption with its nicely sprung seating and wicker chair was a symbol of dependence, of his always needing help. It made him want to run and punch fate.

  He fought despair, finished his rum, and headed for the third floor.

  All was quiet when he made it to the nursery.

  The room was spotless.

  But Lionel wasn’t alone. Curled up in the rocking chair was the nanny.

  Bare brown feet
.

  Bright white nightgown with lace and ribbons—something elegant and denoting a refined lady.

  Who was LaCroy?

  What was her background?

  And why did he like the shape of her small feet?

  With a shake of his head, he returned to his mission.

  “Hey, little soldier. The storm has you awake, too.”

  The babe lifted his arms.

  If Busick felt steadier he’d pick him up. Instead, he lowered his hand, letting the boy have the cuff of his robe.

  Lionel caught it and batted it about.

  But Busick’s gaze lifted to LaCroy.

  She sighed and curled deeper into the chair. That blanket had fallen away, exposing a hip and more of her long legs.

  “Such strength, little one. Man-to-man, do you want to keep your nanny?”

  The boy dribbled on the trim piping on Busick’s sleeve.

  He wasn’t sure if that was a yes or no.

  Lightning zipped out the window. Thunder crackled.

  The nanny sprang out of the chair with a gold knife raised.

  Her eyes were wild.

  “Nanny LaCroy?”

  She trembled. Hair spilling from her mobcap.

  “Is that a weapon in the nursery?”

  Blinking, she lowered the knife and started pulling a blanket up around her. “You startled me, Duke.”

  Why did her tone sound as if he’d done something wrong checking on his ward? He knotted his robe belt into a ball for Lionel and handed it to the boy to chew.

  “Is this a new way to raise children? With knives?”

  “Yes, sir, it’s something Greek. Or maybe tribal from the African shores. It certainly can’t be English to feel the need to be protected.”

  Words were a dangerous thing. There was no way to retract a barb. It cut as much flesh going in as it did going out.

  The wide-eyed woman was hurting. A joke wouldn’t do. He put his hand on hers, taking the knife from her, dropping the expensive jeweled thing to the floor.

  Thunder crackled, and she shivered.

  The woman was frightened by something that wasn’t him and nothing made more sense than to draw her into his arms.

  But he wouldn’t.

  That would be a dangerous line to cross, to take her in a tight embrace, to press her delightful curves to him. Could he chase away her fears? Would he add new ones?