Now the duke was dying, but the memories never would. Hell, even the urchins gathering kindling in the woods reminded him of Sabina’s bright hair and ready laughter, blast her to hell!
He tossed Conquistador’s reins to a slack-jawed groom and pushed through the carved front doors. “Am I on time?” he shouted to the startled butler who hurried to see what manner of caller dared to open the massive castle doors by himself.
“On time?” The duke kept regular hours at Espinham Castle. Always had, always would. Watson glanced at the huge clock that stood in the entryway. It was barely five. “Dinner is not till six, my lord.”
“Who cares about food at a time like this? Has the vicar come?”
“Tuesday, my lord.” Watson hurried to catch the viscount’s riding coat, hat, and gloves before the younger man tore up the wide, winding stairs. He shook his head at the retreating figure. “Same as always. That’s His Grace’s cribbage night.”
Connor was already on the floor above, headed past the hanging tapestries and the battle axes on the wall, toward the modern wing of the castle. He burst into the duke’s suite without knocking.
The duke had been enjoying a preprandial sherry and a salacious French novel in the privacy of his bedroom, where neither his busybody butler nor his meddling manservant could say him nay. His gouty foot was propped on an extra pillow on the immense ducal bed; his shirt collar was open, awaiting a fresh neckcloth. His Grace looked up at the commotion in his sitting room, prepared to tear the hide off any servant who dared interrupt his afternoon’s repose.
There stood his son. In all his dirt, with a trail of mud behind him and the smell of horse wafting ahead of him, and a scowl on his face. The duke’s glass tipped, dribbling sherry down his chin and onto his shirt. He dabbed at his mouth with his sleeve, then recalled the French novel and tried to stuff it under the bedclothes, which dislodged his foot off its pillow, which sent pain shooting through him. He shouted in agony.
“Oh, my God, it’s as bad as I feared! Thank goodness I got here in time!” The viscount strode to the bed and reached for his father’s hand. “I came as soon as I heard.”
When the pain subsided, Espinwall asked, “Uh, Royce, just what was it that you heard?”
“Why, that you were ailing, of course. Or did you think to keep it from me? That would be just like you, I suppose, dying all alone so your son could feel remorse for the rest of his life. Thank goodness your physician had the sense to send for me.”
The duke took a moment to think. “You came to Espinham because you thought I was sickly—is that right?”
Connor’s blue eyes narrowed. The duke’s handclasp was surprisingly firm, and his eyes were as clear as the viscount’s own. His Grace had always been a heavyset, robust man, and he hadn’t lost a smidgen of heft that Connor could see. He took his hand back. “You don’t look ill to me.”
The duke gasped and clutched at his chest. He moaned a bit, too.
“Oh, Lud, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have burst in here like this, shouldn’t have upset you or doubted the doctor. Would you rather I leave?”
For answer, the duke held out his hand, pleadingly. “Please…stay,” he whispered.
“Of course, Father. Just tell me what I can do for you. Shall I send for your man? The doctor?” All Connor could see in the way of medication was a decanter of sherry. Perhaps it was too late for anything else but solace for the pain. He poured a glass and held it to his father’s lips. “What do you need?”
Groaning again, His Grace mumbled what sounded like air. Connor started fanning him with the French novel. “There, catch your breath.”
The duke pushed the book aside. “I said, ‘heir,’ you dolt, not ‘air.’ I don’t want to die without the succession assured.”
Connor left the bedside to get help. His father was obviously delirious. The viscount shouted for the duke’s man, then demanded he send for Dr. Goodbody immediately.
“But, my lord, His Grace’s physician is Mr. Kennilworth, same as always.”
“He must have consulted another doctor when the condition worsened. We’ll track the man down later. Just get someone here, now!” He went back to the bedside.
“I thought you’d left,” the duke whimpered, hanging onto Connor’s coat sleeve.
“No, I won’t go anywhere as long as you need me.”
“And you’ll look after Espinham and everything after I’m gone? You won’t disappear back into London’s stews?”
“You’re not going anywhere,” the viscount insisted, trying to keep his voice steady through the lump in his throat.
“Of course I am, you gudgeon. Everyone dies eventually, even youngsters like you, going off to wars and duels and madcap curricle races. Then where will the estate be? In the hands of some humgudgeon upstart fourth cousin, that’s where.”
“It won’t happen, Father, I swear.”
“You do? Heavens be praised! Now I can die in peace!”
“You’re not dying,” Connor insisted, but his father was already babbling about grandsons.
“Why, you could even marry that Martindale woman. She’s a widow now, you know.”
Connor took a step back from the bed. “What? You absolutely forbade me to marry her! That’s why I went away in the first place.”
The duke waved one hand in the air. “That was then, when she was my librarian’s daughter, barely gentry. This is now. You haven’t found anyone else to marry in all these years, and she’s a proven breeder. Three sons, by George, and you have none.”
“I wouldn’t marry Sabina Greene if she were the last woman on earth.”
The duke gasped and fell back on the pillows, his hand over his heart again. “Damn if you’re not as perverse as ever. When I say nay, you say aye. When I say you can, you say you cannot. Thunderation, boy, I demand it!”
“And you are as pigheaded as always. I do not dance to your tune, sir, and never shall.”
“Then I’ll never get to dance at your wedding, will I?” The duke wiped a tear, or something, from the corner of his eye. “And I’ll never live to dandle grandsons on my knee. Is that too much for an old man to ask?”
*
The Greene boys, meanwhile, ran to intercept Reverend Davenport. They’d followed the viscount and his flying stallion to the Espinham stables, where the grooms always let them watch the horses. They were there when messengers were sent for the physician and the solicitor and the vicar.
“We’ve killed the duke!” Martin cried.
“The groom says the shock of seeing his son sent him into heart palpitations. Or apoplexy,” Jasper explained. “We were only trying to help, the way you said we should.”
“We thought the duke was lonely,” Benjy added. “Now, if His Grace isn’t dead, he’ll kill us for sure,”
“Oh, dear.”
So the reverend Mr. Davenport had to take the viscount aside and explain about the three poor fatherless children who were trying to do three good deeds for Christmas.
“Those redheaded urchins in the woods?”
“Yes, my lord, they are also doing charity work in atonement for a broken, window. They are good boys at heart, and their mother tries her best. I thought this would teach them better values than a birching would.”
The viscount shoved a paper under the vicar’s nose. “You’ve taught them to be criminals instead! They’ve forged Dr. Goodbody’s name, whoever the deuce he is.”
The vicar studied the paper, recognizing Martin’s handwriting instantly. “No, my lord, it is signed ‘Dr. Goodboy,’ not Dr. Goodbody. They must have thought that the end justified the means. After all, you are here, and the duke is pleased to see you.”
“Pleased? He dashed near had a heart attack! He’s too frail for such a shock.”
“Frail? His Grace?” The vicar wondered if Lord Royce was the one suffering a brain fever. “The duke is the healthiest man I know, except for the gout.”
“He has the gout?” Connor asked, only slightly emba
rrassed to be unaware of his own father’s condition.
“Of course he does. That’s why you found him abed at all. He stayed too long at Squire Marsden’s last night, washing down Mrs. Marsden’s lobster patties with the latest shipment from the Gentlemen Traders. Otherwise, he’d be out exercising one of those brutish horses of his.”
Now that sounded more in keeping with Connor’s memory. “So he’s not dying?”
“Oh, dear me, I pray not. The bishop is coming to visit our little church in Chipping Espy for Christmas Eve services, and your father has invited him to stay for dinner. My lord, do you recall the pennant that is flown over Espinham Castle when the duke is in residence?”
“Of course I do. It’s my family’s emblem. The lion rampant on a field of blue.”
“To be sure. Well, one of the footmen is assigned the task of placing a white cloth over one of the lion’s paws when His Grace is having a bad day. That way everyone in the neighborhood knows when to stay away.”
“Deuce take it—then I changed all my plans, nearly broke my neck and almost lamed my horse trying to get here, for nothing!”
“I wouldn’t say nothing, my lord, if you and your father are reconciled. Why, the Greene children might have done a good deed after all.”
Connor was having none of it. “I’ll murder them, by Zeus. That will be my own good deed, ridding the world of those sneaky, scheming little bastards before they grow into embezzlers or extortionists.”
The vicar pretended not to hear. “Of course, I cannot condone their methods, but their intentions were—”
“Their intentions were to feather their own nest! Well, my father will not succeed in backing me into a corner, and neither will three future felons—nor their conniving mother!”
3
“I will not marry you, madam, and that is final.”
Sabina was sitting with her mending, an endless task with three small boys, when the madman barged into her wee parlor, shouting. She took a firmer grip on her scissors. It wasn’t much of a weapon with which to defend her sleeping babies, but the raving Bedlamite was between her and the fireplace poker.
Molly, the young parlormaid, was twisting her apron in her hands and wailing, “He wouldn’t stop, ma’am, no matter what I said about the late hour and you not receiving. And he wouldn’t let me announce him proper, like you taught me. What should I do?”
By now Sabina’d had a better look at the intruder, and decided he was better-looking than ever. His shoulders were broader under his well-cut coat, and his blond hair was styled in a fashionable crop. His eyes were the same angelic blue, but now they had tiny lines around them. Well, so did hers. A person could not live a score and a half of years without gathering some tokens of passing time. Of course her lines were from laughter and his were from depraved dissipation. And Sabina couldn’t care for the new, sardonic sneer to his lip as he surveyed her with equal intensity. Oh, how she wished she wasn’t wearing such a faded frock and such a dowdy widow’s cap—not that she had any better in her wardrobe. And she really should have replaced the worn draperies ages ago. Most of all she wished she wasn’t wearing her locket. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice, she hoped, and, while she was wishing, perhaps a great wind would swoop down and scoop him away. For whatever else Connor Hamilton was doing here, he was sure to disrupt her life.
“Ma’am? Had I ought to run to the castle and get help?”
“No, Molly. I don’t think help will be coming from that direction. Nor heaven, I suppose,” she added with a sigh.
The poor girl appeared confused, and Sabina couldn’t blame her. She wondered if she was dreaming herself, or in the throes of some dire nightmare. “You may go to bed, Molly. I’ll show our caller out.”
Molly was uncertain about leaving her mistress alone with such a large, loud gentleman, until Connor tossed her a coin. “Go on, girl. I am not going to strangle your mistress, much as I might wish to.”
“Should I be fetching the tea things, then, ma’am?”
Sabina had risen to her feet by now, to face him on his own level. Or to run. She took a step toward the door. “No, Viscount Royce will not be staying that long.”
Molly’s eyes widened. “Lord Royce? Him what’s in all the London scandal columns? I’ll be right outside the door, ma’am, iffen you should need me.”
Sabina smothered the urge to smooth her hair or kick the boys’ jackstraws under the sofa. And whatever made her think he’d be less formidable if she was standing up? He was casually leaning against the mantel; her knees were quaking. She’d forgotten how tall he was, that was all, Sabina told herself as she collapsed back into her chair. She would not invite him to sit. In fact, she refused to let herself be intimidated in her own home, certainly not by this…this loose screw.
“Very well, Con—Lord Royce. You have five minutes. What do you want?”
He crossed his arms over his broad chest and glared at her. “I want you to call off your brats. I don’t know when you and my father grew as close as inkle-weavers, but the plot you two hatched won’t wash, no matter how many crimes you encourage your hell-born babes to commit.”
Brats? Hell-born babes? Her precious darlings? Sabina jumped to her feet, hands on hips. “Whatever wits you might once have had have obviously gone begging, Connor Hamilton. I’ve heard a life of debauchery can do that. As for your father and myself, why, we have not had one halfway polite conversation since you left nearly twelve years ago. He barely nodded to me at Squire’s house last night. If we were on the least of speaking terms, he could have warned me that the prodigal son was returning.”
“He didn’t know. But someone did.” He raised his voice even louder. “Someone arranged the whole thing.”
“And you think it was I, or my sons?”
“There was a note.”
“Good grief. I can barely get them to practice their penmanship! How dare you accuse my boys of…of plotting against you? I cannot even begin to imagine how you might have seen them.”
The vicar had sworn Sabina was ignorant of the forged letter, and her indignation seemed genuine. Connor decided he’d have words with the iniquitous infants himself on the morrow. “I’ve seen enough of their handiwork to know they should be away at school instead of getting up to mischief.”
“They are too young.”
“They are too old to be tied to their mother’s apron strings, especially the eldest. But like your father, you are keeping them around so you won’t be alone. You’ll make them into weak, puling cowards, afraid to leave your side, just as your father did to you.”
He might say what he would about her, Sabina thought, but criticize her children? Never! “And you are mean and judgmental, just like your father. You dare come here to my own house to accuse my sons of heaven knows what, then declare they should be sent to some barbaric boarding school—and you don’t even know them! You have become another Espinwall, a vile-tempered tyrant. And you shout just as loudly as the duke. If you wake my sons I shall skewer you with my darning needle.”
“I am not shouting,” he bellowed, causing the china shepherdess on the mantel to rattle only slightly. “And I am not like my father.”
“No? It would be just like His Grace to appear, uninvited, at any house in Chipping Espy, and expect to be received. As though we lesser folk were not entitled to our privacy or our rest.”
Connor shrugged. What else could he do, admit he was in the wrong? Hardly. “I did not come here to discuss the duke,” he said stiffly. “Except that my father has the notion to see me wed. To you.” A mouthful of lemons could not produce a more sour expression on Viscount Royce’s face. “I came to tell you that it won’t do. I will never marry you, Sabina Greene.”
“You will not marry me? Well, I do not recall asking. And let me tell you, my high-and-mighty lordship, that I wouldn’t have you if you begged on bended knee. Nay, if you came crawling through broken glass. What, should I take up with a rake, a libertine, a womanizer? A fine example a wastrel like
you would be for my sons, if you weren’t killed in some war or a duel. And what kind of father would you be to them? A clamorous, cantankerous clunch who’d chase them off, as yours did. Why you…you’d likely have little Benjy running away to be a cabin boy in the navy and I’d never see him again!” Sabina realized she was shredding one of Jasper’s mended shirts in her hands, so she used it to dab at the tears that were streaming down her cheeks.
“You still look like a roasted pig when you cry,” Connor told her, taking out a fine lawn handkerchief. “All pink and puffy. And your nose is shiny.”
“I am not crying,” she sniffed.
Connor raised one eyebrow, but did not comment as he gently blotted the moisture from her eyes. “You seem to have lost your freckles, anyway. What was it that finally did the trick? Lemon juice? Denmark lotion?”
“I merely stopped traipsing about the countryside without a bonnet. I am a mother now, a respectable matron, not a ramshackle miss.”
Connor had loved her freckles, all one hundred and seventy-nine of them. And he’d loved the girl who raced at his side through meadows of flowers. He turned away so she wouldn’t see his pain at the memories, and he wouldn’t see her tears. Damn, he knew he shouldn’t have come back. Eleven years, and he was still mesmerized by the little witch. Looking anywhere but at her, Connor inspected the sitting room. At first he’d seen only Sabina; now he noticed the pinchpenny parlor. His eyes took in the bare spots of the carpet, the chairs with more pillows than upholstery, the chipped vase holding a bedraggled sprig of ivy.
“You could have had a better life, Sabina.”
Sabina took a deep breath, knowing they were to have an eleven-year-old argument, one she’d heard a million times in her head. “I could not leave my father, Connor, and you should not have asked me to. He was sickly; I was all he had.”
“I wasn’t asking you to leave forever, dash it, Sabina, only long enough to get to Gretna Green and back.”
Greetings of the Season and Other Stories Page 15
