The Guardian Duke: A Forgotten Castles Novel

by Carie, Jamie

"Well enough." He grinned at her, a brief, almost humorless action that made wrinkles break out across his face.

  "Oh, good. I was dreading searching it out. One never knows the best place to stop and ask questions in an unfamiliar town." She smiled at him, trying to encourage a response.

  He looked at her, a long and considering glance this time. "What makes you take this journey? It must be something important for you to be taking such risks alone."

  Alex nodded, gazing down at her gloved hands. He would think her stupid. She should come up with some reasonable explanation for her journey to tell people, but her mind was blank of any excuse except for the truth. "Well, I received a letter that the regent and some other people believe my parents are . . . have perished." She swallowed hard and looked over at him. "I believe I'm going to find out if it's true."

  "You have reason to believe it's not?"

  "Well, yes. You see, my parents are often far from home on some adventure or another. They are something like treasure hunters, sleuths you might say. People hire them to find things or to solve a puzzle. It's true," she asserted when his eyebrows came together in a puzzled way. "They are quite famous for it."

  "Hmmm. And how long have they been away this time?"

  Alex bit down on her lower lip. "A year. And yes, that is longer than usual, but I've had letters from them. And . . . I just know they're alive. They may be in trouble. They may need me."

  "So, you are going off alone to find them?"

  Put like that, it did sound rash, ridiculous really. She didn't even have a weapon or the knowledge of how to use it should she magically discover one. "I didn't see any choice," she muttered back toward her hands.

  "When did you receive the last letter?"

  Alex grimaced. "About ten months ago." She rushed out the rest. "The postmark is from Belfast in Ireland. I may find clues as to what happened to them there. They must have spoken to people. I know I can find out what has happened to them. I . . . I have to try. I can't go back and just sit and wait. I can't." Tears threatened her eyes.

  Montague cleared his throat. "Well, you've made it thus far, haven't you?"

  She sniffed and faced the wind and the edge of town. "Yes, I suppose I have."

  He didn't say anything for several minutes and then abruptly, "I have a nephew who lives in Dublin. Perhaps now would be a good time for a visit."

  Alex swung back toward him, her eyes widening. Was he offering to travel with her? Keep her safe? It was as if God had sent her an old, warring angel as her guard. "I'm sure your nephew would be most happy to see you." She gave him a bright smile, which made him clear his throat and look away.

  A little happy thrill ran through her. He had all but agreed!

  They turned down a narrow street, Montague motioning for her to follow him, and soon stood outside what looked to be a quaint little shop of some kind. It had large windows on the ground floor and smaller windows, probably where the proprietor lived, on the upper floor. The sign on the building read Keys Pottery with the number 43 above it. This must be where Missy's brother lived.

  They dismounted, saw that the horses were secured to a hitching post, and then went through a green door. The interior was a bit dark and it took Alex a few seconds for her eyes to adjust. Once they did, she smiled. There were shelves and cupboards on every wall with rows and rows of bowls and cups and pitchers and pipes. Many had designs of ships on the water in pretty colors. How she wished she could take something home to Ann. She would just swoon over the large pitcher with its soaring birds circling on it.

  A voice interrupted her. "May I help you?"

  She looked up to see the male copy of Missy. Dark curly hair and big brown eyes. She smiled at him. "I'm looking for a Mr. Paul Keys."

  He flushed and cast a glance aside. "That would be me."

  "Oh, wonderful. You see, I've just come from Carlisle and your sister loaned me a horse to ride. His name is Sorrell and he belongs to your sister's friend. She asked if I would bring him here, to you, while I continue on my way to Ireland."

  Paul glanced at Montague standing beside her. "You want me to keep a horse?"

  "Just for a few hours. Your sister is coming to fetch him later tonight when she finishes her work for the day. It was so kind of her as my carriage broke down." She paused, realizing her story had changed, and tried to remember if she'd said something different to Montague.

  "That is, my coachman took ill and had to go to the next town and do some business and—" Her hands waved in the air like a ninny. She really needed to stop making up things so readily! "Anyway, she loaned me the horse and said to bring him to you. You don't mind, do you?" The fact that her lashes started involuntarily batting just a bit faster made her feel wretched but she waited, letting the silence grow in a way no one had taught her but always seemed to work.

  Paul flushed a deeper color of pink and looked around the room. "I'd be glad to take him off your hands, miss."

  "Oh, how silly of me!" Alex held out her hand. "I'm Alexandria Featherstone and"—she turned to Montague and gestured toward him with a gloved hand—"this is my kind escort, Mr. Montague."

  She gave him a sunny smile and raised her eyebrows. "I do wish I could purchase something from your shop to take back home. You have so many fine things! But, alas, I shall be traveling for some time and shouldn't add to my baggage if I can help it."

  "Thank you, Miss Featherstone. Perhaps on your way back?"

  "Oh yes. That is a very good idea. I shall have to remember that."

  Paul hesitated. "I do have something rather small." He turned and scurried away, his tall form darting through a door and then around a corner, and then he was back with something in his hand. He opened his hand and held out a small white duck with two tiny yellow ducklings.

  "Oh, how cute they are! Did you make them yourself?" Out of the corner of her eye she caught Montague rolling his eyes, arms crossed in front of him.

  "Yes, and I would like you to have them. They won't take up much room at all."

  "I couldn't just take them. How much do they cost?"

  "I insist." He held the trio out until Alex allowed him to drop them into her hand.

  "Thank you so much. You are too kind, sir."

  He smiled at her, pointedly turning away from Montague. "Perhaps they will remind you to stop here on your way back home."

  "Oh, yes. It has been a pleasure, sir."

  They made their way outside and delivered Sorrell over to the eager-looking young man. She mounted the lieutenant's horse and Montague swung up behind her. She leaned around him and waved good-bye until Paul was out of sight, saying, "What a nice young man he was!"

  "Humph."

  Alex faced forward, ignoring the comment. Just ahead she could see a glimpse of the water. They were so close. After going about two more blocks toward the harbor, she just barely heard Montague mutter, "Nice young man, hmmm? The real danger is the men falling all over themselves around her. Doesn't need a protector. A muzzle would do just fine. A muzzle and a potato sack over her head."

  Alex gasped. "A potato sack! You wouldn't dare! Maybe your nephew doesn't need a visit from you after all. Maybe he's busy!"

  Montague gave her upper arm a little squeeze. "Don't forget whose horse we're riding. You don't think he'll come after it? I wonder at his mood when he next sees you."

  Instant fear struck Alex's heart at his words. "Sorry. Perhaps I was a little hasty. I do appreciate your company. Thank you, Montague. I'll try and not encourage unwanted attention."

  "That would be wise, my dear. Whenever on a mission of any importance or secrecy, one must learn to blend into the background."

  Alex let the words sink in, knowing their truth. "Montague, how did you learn these things? And how did you learn to fight so well?"

  "I was a soldier for many
years," his deep voice murmured. "And I've traveled on the king's business throughout the world. It took many years to subdue my nature and train my body into submission. My goal is that of the apostle who said, 'Be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good, and acceptable, and perfect, will of God.'"

  Alex thought about the Scripture. She wasn't sure if tearing off to find her parents was God's will or not; truth be told, she had been too afraid to ask Him and hear something she didn't want to hear. But the Scripture Montague quoted seemed a much bigger picture than asking for a specific answer for God's direction. It was almost as if asking no matter what she did or where she went, He would use it to prove her, to make her into what was good and acceptable. She had to only be not conformed to this world and renew her mind. "How does one renew the mind to prove out the will of God?"

  "Through Scripture and trials." Montague chuckled. "Your journey should give you plenty of trials."

  "Oh, dear," Alex murmured. "I'm not sure I like the sound of that."

  Montague barked out another laugh. He didn't say anything else, just nudged the horse's sides and hurried them along to the harbor and the ferry that would take them across the Irish Sea.

  THE FERRY, SAINT PATRICK, ROCKED along on the Irish Sea, crowded and cold, wet and windy. The wind that had seemed harsh on the road was like a cutting force driving its cold fingers through Alex's clothes on board the deck of the ship. She stood at the rail, looking across at the choppy, gray water while Montague had gone off on some unknown errand. She was learning it was better not to question him too closely about his affairs. His frown when she overstepped his invisible privacy boundary was enough to send a dog scurrying away with its tail tucked between its legs. He would find her when he was ready, she was sure of that. And more, he wouldn't have left her unless he thought her safe.

  She glanced around at the people squeezed in beside her. More women and children than she would have thought. The journey was to take four hours to the Isle of Man, the destination of some of her fellow passengers, and then another three to Belfast. It had cost them seventeen shillings each. She'd offered to pay Montague's way, but of course he'd given her that look and she'd let the matter drop like a hot potato fished from the coals.

  Thinking of him must have conjured him up, as he came up from behind her. He was holding out a piece of paper.

  "After I bought our tickets I went to the post office to check for any correspondence. Seems you have someone of importance writing to you."

  Alex bit down on her lower lip and took the letter. Only the duke would be important enough for someone to forward it on to Whitehaven. She had instructed Ann to speed any letters to her along the route to Belfast while she was gone. What if her parents wrote? She had to have her mail.

  Taking the letter, she glanced down at the long, bold lines of the duke's familiar handwriting. She thought back to her plea for more funds. Had he believed her? Had he sent it? "Thank you, Montague." She turned away and peeled up the ducal seal. Swallowing hard, she opened it and began to read.

  Dear Lady Featherstone,

  It has become apparent from your letters that you are in need of guidance and direction. I shall be traveling to Holy Island posthaste to assist you in the calamities that have befallen you since the death of your parents. Fear not, my dear, I shall take care of everything.

  Could you relay your measurements in your next letter? I understand you are in need of a new wardrobe, and I would like to have London's best modiste make up the latest in fashionable attire for a young woman of your status. No ward of mine will be found traipsing about the countryside in rags. A description of your coloring might be advantageous as well.

  I confess that I am looking forward to the pleasure of meeting you in person and putting a face to the impression you have made in my mind. And I find myself thankful for your prayers and offer to confide in you. We will talk more of this on Holy Island.

  Yours,

  St. Easton

  Alex leaned back against the railing with a groan, her heart sinking with dread.

  "Something amiss?" Montague asked, one brow cocked.

  Alex nodded and pressed her gloved hand to her mouth. Oh, dear. Yes, something was going to be very much amiss.

  Chapter Eleven

  Gabriel stumbled through his front door, slammed it shut, and leaned against it. He was breathing as if he'd run from the opera house instead of riding in his comfortable carriage. His driver had taken one look at what must have been the wildness on his face and hurried them through the London streets to home. The whole way Gabriel tried to convince himself he was not losing his mind. Worse, was the feeling that something was not right with his mind.

  He remembered an essay he'd read long ago by Jonathan Swift on matters of the brain and wondered if he still had it. Swift and others had written about experimentation with electrical current to correct the brain's function. Maybe Gabriel should start thinking of more alternative methods to gain back more of his hearing. Yes, that was it. He needed to pull out books and old manuscripts he'd studied years ago and find his own cure. He was more educated than the physicians anyway.

  There had been a time in his life when he'd wished he was not a duke and could study medicine and become a physician, not that he'd breathed that thought aloud. A short bark of a laugh escaped his throat as he pushed away from the door and imagined the look on his father's face had he dared mention his many interests over the years. Dukes were supposed to conduct themselves in the powerful realm of politics, social politics mostly, but in times of war a duke's influence could, and many times did, impact history.

  And it wasn't that he didn't cultivate the appropriate relationships, he did. But it was all so easy, and the only thing to keep the numbing boredom at bay was a constant challenge. He'd always craved intense study and then, after learning all he could on a topic, he became bored, despondent for a while, until the next stage of interest surfaced. The pattern repeated itself all through his life—diving into study and discovery with heady glee and then plummeting into despondency when he'd learned all he could on the topic. By his thirtieth birthday he had studied every branch of science, history, geology, agriculture, languages, mathematics, philosophy, and religion, not neglecting the physical challenges of swordplay, the mastery of all sorts of weapons, wrestling, horse breeding and racing; the list was nearly endless.

  When all that failed to impress him any longer, he turned to the last unknown—the arts. Avenues of endless creativity. Painting, sculpting, drawing, he tried his hand at poetry and even inventing. But music had become the only passion he knew would never fade. He had one of the most elegant music rooms in the world back home in Wiltshire. He'd spent hours there, trying to learn the pianoforte, the violin, voice. And he'd failed, miserably failed. He saw the natural ability, the genius of Mozart, Beethoven, Bach, and Handel and knew he would never, not if he studied the rest of his life, master a miniscule piece of score as they had.

  Seeing his butler approach, he pulled himself back to the present and took off his coat, handing it over.

  "You have a caller, Your Grace."

  "Eh?" Gabriel said the word and then bit down on his tongue. The butler's voice was probably loud enough to wake the dead, but Gabriel had to pay close attention to hear him. He watched the man's lips move as he repeated the phrase.

  "A caller? Who is it?" He couldn't imagine seeing anyone right now, except maybe for Albert, but he'd gone back to the country, the place where Gabriel should be—hiding out, not attending operas and planning trips to Northumberland.

  "Sir Edward Brooke, Your Grace." The butler held out a calling card.

  Gabriel took it and read the name. Edward Brooke. One of the prince regent's advisors and a friend to the prime minister, Earl of Liverpool, a most powerful man. How the deuce was he supposed
to carry off a full conversation? He had to face facts. By taking this meeting he would risk everything. Once the royal court knew of his fate, it wouldn't take any time at all for the gossips to inform the whole of English society.

  Gabriel pictured the crumbling of the empire he'd spent the last nine years building. They would lose faith in him. If he showed any weakness, they would not trust him. It was all a house of cards anyway, investments based on relationships based on other investments. But what could he do? Brooke was obviously bent on seeing him if he had waited for his return from the opera. Gabriel couldn't avoid him forever. One did not refuse the regent's men when they called. It was tantamount to refusing the prince regent, and that kind of behavior could lead all the way to treason and the tower.

  Taking a bracing breath, he nodded to his butler and turned toward the front salon where guests were received. He reached for the door handle and paused. His hand trembled, fear pounding like a shadow against his soul. Stop it. He could still hear well enough to help. Between that and reading the man's lips, he might muddle through. He turned the handle and pressed open the door.

  "Sir Edward, what a surprise. I am sorry to have kept you waiting."

  The man, a stocky gentleman with deep sideburns and a head of black hair heavily threaded with gray, stood and gave Gabriel a brief bow. He said some polite trifle about inconveniences with a hand motion of brushing them aside. Gabriel walked over to the sideboard and motioned toward the crystal decanters.

  Brooke nodded in response. Gabriel turned his back to him to pour the drinks but glanced over his shoulder as he did so to see if he was speaking. He was not. Gabriel took the glass over to him and held it out. He turned and seated himself across from Brooke and then tapped his ear, inspiration coming to him. "I fear I am suffering from a dastardly cold that has clogged my ears up something terrible. You may have to speak up, and if that doesn't work, write down the nature of your visit." He waited, breath held, for the reaction.

  Brooke's eyes narrowed but he nodded and spoke louder, his lips clearly enunciating the next words. "I'm sorry to hear that, Your Grace. Have you seen a doctor? The prince regent's own physician may be available if you would like me to put in a request."