Jenny nodded, pulling the door open. James stepped inside. Mother sat with her feet up on the room’s fainting couch. Her coloring was poor, even more so than usual. She looked up as he stepped nearer.
She held her hands out to him. He took them, then sat beside her on the couch.
“Oh, James. What a journey I had. Never have I been so thrown about in all my life.”
“I am sorry, Mother.” James didn’t at all like the redness he saw in her eyes. “You are not feverish, are you?”
“No,” she answered. “But I am exhausted. The puppy did not at all care for the carriage ride.”
“Puppy?”
She sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder. “I have taken in a puppy.”
Again? James had spent the better part of a fortnight searching out a home for the last pup Mother had saved from some horrific fate or other.
“He is a little terrier,” Mother continued. “The most adorable little puppy and so very well behaved. He does jump about a lot and likes to chew on things he really rather shouldn’t. And when he gets it in his head to bark, nothing can dissuade him from it. But otherwise, he is perfectly lovely.”
“A terrier, you say?” He sounds far more like a terror.
“Mrs. Allen threatened to have my little pup banished to the stables. All he’d done was chew up a leg on one of the dining room chairs. Only one leg on one chair.”
Mrs. Allen was the long-suffering housekeeper at the family’s country estate. She had endured a long line of Mother’s destructive puppies.
“I was quite distraught,” Mother said. “My poor little puppy would have been so very lonely in the stables, and Mrs. Allen would not listen to my pleadings. You were not there to talk to her. She only listens to you.”
“I was here in Town, Mother.”
“I know, dearest. And I do not fault you for that. You are a young gentleman with social obligations. I am so happy you have found your footing in London Society. Not everyone does, you know.”
Father’s account of her disastrous attempt to find her own footing returned with force to his memory. “I do know, Mother. I know.”
“My little pup has been such a comfort this past week as I have endured a sore throat. I simply couldn’t bear to leave him behind, so he has made the journey here. I do hope he takes to Town and isn’t too miserable. But I know you will know precisely what is to be done.”
James nodded. He’d deal with the puppy eventually. The sore throat was the more pressing matter. Mother’s health had always been uncertain, her throat being particularly vulnerable. He would speak with an apothecary. Cook could be counted upon to provide a warm posset. As always, James would see that all was well.
“This journey must have taken a toll on your strength,” he said. “I am certain Jenny will have a bath drawn at once, then you can rest for the remainder of the afternoon.”
Jenny made a quick curtsy and left to draw the bath. Alone at last, James struck at the topic he knew he must broach with his very sensitive mother.
“Bennett told me why you have come,” he said. “I wish you had spared yourself the effort, Mother. I would not see you ill for the world.”
“And I would not see you unhappy for the world,” Mother answered. “I needed to see for myself that you are making a wise choice in courting this young lady. I need to know you are happy.”
“Father was a bit hasty in his letter,” James said. “There is no understanding between Miss Lancaster and myself, no determined course for our future. I am coming to know her, and Father, in his eagerness for a beneficial match, has chosen to interpret that as something just shy of a betrothal.”
He left unspoken his obligation to move in that direction. Mother worried greatly over even the smallest of things. He had learned long ago not to burden her with his troubles.
“Your father said he meant to invite her family to take dinner with us,” Mother said.
It was the first James had heard of this plan. “I shall have to ask Father about that,” he muttered.
“How did you meet this Miss Lancaster?” Mother asked. “You haven’t mentioned her before.”
“I have a very slight acquaintance with her brother-in-law.” James intended to do his utmost not to be any less forthright than was necessary. “I had met her briefly on a few occasions before. This is her first Season and the first time I have spent any length of time with her.”
Mother’s brow drew inward. “Do you like her?”
“I do.” He knew the moment he spoke the words that they were true. He did like Miss Lancaster. He didn’t love her, nor did he truly wish to marry her, but he most definitely liked her. “I believe you will like her as well.”
Mother’s concern only seemed to grow. “I do not know that she will take much notice of me. Your father said her sister is a duchess. Duchesses do not care for unimportant people.”
“They will all be very kind to you.” James prayed that proved true. He held out no hope of civility from His Grace, but what he knew of Miss Lancaster told him he could depend upon her kindness. “Rest now, Mother.”
“Will you check on my puppy?”
He nodded his agreement.
“And see if the housekeeper can tell us of a reliable physician?”
He nodded again.
“And where the nearest apothecary can be found?”
“Of course, Mother.” He pulled a light throw from the back of the couch, settling it over her as she lay down once more. “I will see to it all.”
She reached up a frail hand and lightly touched his face. “You’ll make everything right. You always do.”
So he did. Mother’s well-being and Bennett’s future had always been his responsibility. For years, he’d held them all together. He had dedicated himself to caring for his family, to sacrificing for their happiness. That was forever the role he fulfilled, and it was an often lonely one.
Chapter Eleven
“Are you simply dying, Daphne?” Artemis seemed to hope the answer was yes. “Here you are, being whisked across Town”—she made a sweeping gesture, filling almost the entire interior of the carriage—“to meet the mother of”—a hand pressed to her heart even as she sighed—“your dashing hero.” Her look turned very commiserating. “The hero’s mother is always a dragon, you realize.”
Daphne rested her forehead against her upturned hand. Artemis was on her third round of tragic predictions.
“She will be positively horrid and make you excessively miserable.” Artemis’s eyes pulled wide with excitement. “She might even demand that you be thrown from the house and the doors locked.”
“That is quite enough, Artemis.” Persephone generally had a large store of patience when dealing with the youngest of the Lancasters, but she had apparently reached the end of her endurance this time.
“But Daphne will be a tragic heroine. Those are the very best kind. They suffer and pine away in destitution, and some don’t even survive. I would be a tremendous tragic heroine. I would suffer with dignity only to faint dead away and quite possibly never revive.” Artemis made a habit of announcing herself on the verge of expiring. Did she even realize how many times she had, by her own declaration, narrowly escaped death in her fifteen years? “It would be heartbreaking.”
“But not unforeseen.” Adam made the comment under his breath, though Daphne overheard. Artemis might have as well had she not been occupied with positioning herself in a dramatic pose of ultimate suffering on the opposite side of the carriage.
“Artemis.” Persephone attempted to gain the girl’s attention. “Artemis.”
She looked up at last.
“Do attempt to act mature enough to warrant the invitation you have received,” Persephone said, a rare show of correction on her part. A bond existed between the oldest and youngest Lancaster sisters that none of th
e others shared. Daphne certainly had never been the favorite that Artemis was. “Lady Techney did not have to include you.”
Artemis pulled out her brilliant smile. “I know how to behave in public.”
“Adam knows how to dance the minuet,” Persephone pointed out. “That doesn’t mean he actually does.”
“I also don’t attend dinner parties,” Adam grumbled. “But here I am.”
Daphne sincerely hoped he meant to be at least a little cooperative. She wanted to make a good impression on James and his family. If Adam spent the entire dinner glaring everyone into terrified silence, the whole evening would be for naught.
The landau pulled to a stop at Techney House. A lump formed in Daphne’s throat. The hero’s mother is always a dragon. Daphne usually dismissed Artemis’s dramatic declarations. That particular observation hit too close to the mark though. She wanted to believe James Tilburn’s mother was as kind and caring as he.
They were handed out of the carriage in succession, and when Daphne emerged, she glanced up at the house’s façade with a growing sense of trepidation. Falstone Castle was far bigger and more imposing than Techney House, built almost entirely of stone, isolated in the midst of a thick, planted forest inhabited by a pack of formidable feral dogs. Yet the castle felt far more warm and inviting than this grand house did. Techney House felt empty in a way not at all physical.
The Techney butler received them with the correct degree of propriety. Not a single fault could be found with the entryway nor the state of the floors. Even the flowers on the narrow table were fresh and flawlessly arranged. The orderliness of it was reassuring, even as the perfection proved quite the opposite.
During her morning calls with Persephone, a social expectation her sister had seldom permitted her to skip, Daphne had more than once overheard comments questioning James’s motivations. Why, people had asked behind their hands, would a gentleman suddenly take up a whirlwind courtship with a girl so wholly unconnected with his family? Her dowry had come up often in those discussions, as had the likelihood of her acerbic guardian forcing the match to rid his hands of her.
She had borne the curious looks and whispered evaluations with the stoic endurance Adam had taught her more than half a decade earlier. In her heart, however, she couldn’t help but worry a little.
James stepped out onto the first-floor landing, and Daphne’s heart leapt at the sight of his familiar copper eyes.
“Forgive me, Your Grace. Your Grace.” He sketched a brief bow, his tone indicating a degree of anxiety that caught Daphne’s attention. “I had intended to greet you upon your arrival”—his gaze encompassed all four of them—“but my mother has been unwell. At the time your carriage was announced, I was attempting to comfort her.”
Was his mother often unwell? Perhaps that was the reason she, according to a great many comments made during their at-home earlier in the day, had not come to Town in at least twenty years.
“I hope Lady Techney recovers quickly,” Persephone answered on everyone’s behalf.
“As do I,” he said, again seeming to address them as a whole. “If you will follow Billingsley to the drawing room, my father and brother are waiting there.”
Adam offered Persephone his arm, ever the perfect gentleman where his wife was concerned. They followed the path the butler took. Artemis kept close on their heels.
“Good evening, Miss Artemis,” James said as she passed and received a very undramatic curtsy in return.
Daphne did her utmost not to wring her hands, all the while fearing their shaking was noticeable. Seeing James always set her stomach fluttering, simultaneously pleasing and unnerving her. It had always been this way, ever since that night on Adam’s balcony.
“Miss Lancaster.” He smiled a little awkwardly.
“Lord Tilburn.” Daphne was proud of the steadiness of her voice—not a hint of her nervousness had entered it. “I hope your mother is not seriously unwell.”
“She is not in any danger.” James’s worried, tense expression belied his confident words. “I fear, though, she is very uncomfortable.”
Artemis had not stepped entirely out of hearing range and, true to form, inserted herself in their conversation without invitation. “If your mother is ill, you must have Daphne recommend a tisane. It is her defining talent, you know.”
Did she have to point out one of Daphne’s oddities so early in the evening? The ability to recall herbal remedies was hardly a lauded accomplishment. James would think her strange, indeed.
“Have you a knack for such things?” Did he ask out of genuine curiosity or merely a desire to be polite?
“Oh yes,” Artemis said. “Even the apothecary we use at Falstone Castle cedes to Daphne’s expertise. She is an herbal genius.”
James walked with them down the corridor. “Does your sister exaggerate, or is this truly something you have studied?”
She heard no mockery in his tone nor saw dismissal in his expression. Others who heard of her interest in herbology responded with everything from disapproval to hurtful amusement.
“I have studied it,” she said. “Though I cannot say I would deem myself a genius.”
The look of concern that yet remained on James’s face echoed many such moments in her own life. How often she had worried over the health of her family members. Having the ability to help them with the knowledge she’d gained had always been a comfort.
“Perhaps if you told me, at least in general terms, what is ailing your mother, I could suggest something.”
“You would do that for a woman you’ve never met?”
“Certainly.” Why did that seem to surprise him so much? “If she is unwell and I can help, I would like to.”
James’s brow furrowed. Daphne felt suddenly very unsure. Did he disapprove of her forwardness in placing herself in the midst of his difficulties? They were not, after all, very well acquainted yet. She fumbled a moment in her mind, seeking a means of salvaging the situation. “Of course, if your mother would feel uncomfortable or if I have overstepped myself—”
But he shook his head without hesitation. “Not at all. I am only unaccustomed to offers of help, I suppose.”
“You are often left to fend for yourself?”
“I am often left to solve everyone’s problems on my own.”
Adam could be like that as well—independent to the point of isolation. Persephone had a talent for undermining his hardheaded insistence on doing things himself.
“I would like to help if you will let me,” Daphne said.
“There is nothing specifically the matter with her,” James answered. “She simply feels unwell in general and, as a result, has not slept as she ought.”
Daphne nodded. One needed rest during an illness, and yet the misery that accompanied it often made sleeping difficult. “Do you think she is more in need of an invigorating tonic or something to help her sleep?”
“I believe she needs sleep more than anything else.”
They had very nearly reached the drawing room.
“I know of several tisanes she might take. I will write a few of them down so your cook can choose the one she has the ingredients for.”
“You know several by memory? A lady of hidden talents.” His lightened tone did her heart good. Perhaps she had eased some of his worry.
“If she is still unwell tomorrow or is bothered by new symptoms, I hope you will send word to Falstone House. I likely know of something that can help.”
Then James Tilburn smiled at her, the very same smile he’d offered to a twelve-year-old girl hiding in the shadows of a balcony. It was soft and caring and infinitely charming. “That is very good of you,” he said. “Thank you.”
Her heart fairly sang at the realization that he hadn’t brushed aside her offer. As a girl, her attempts to help the family had been met with insistence that she was too yo
ung or too incapable of making a difference. Even after she’d proven herself more than adept at tisanes and herbal remedies, the family had been hesitant to come to her when ill. And now, though she was quite grown up, they still tended to dismiss her suggestions or tell her not to trouble herself. James had done neither.
They stepped inside the drawing room. Daphne vaguely noted the other occupants. James’s company was too distracting.
“Allow me to introduce you to my father and brother.” James stepped with her in the direction of their gathered family members.
Daphne felt a moment’s concern—introductions always made her uncomfortable. But James was with her. She trusted him.
Chapter Twelve
When James had first called at Falstone House, he’d expected Daphne Lancaster to be grasping and pampered, a young lady who could have any gentleman for the taking at a mere snap of her guardian’s fingers. He’d quickly discovered otherwise. She was quiet and vulnerable and fragile. She was also, he had realized during their short walk to the drawing room, good-hearted.
She had offered, without hesitation or any degree of pretense, to help his mother. She had listened to his confessions about being the paste keeping his family together—a confession he’d not intended to make—with sincere concern and interest.
She’d proven entirely unspoiled and inherently likable. That made the ruse he was enacting all the more despicable.
He led Miss Lancaster across the drawing room. The Duchess of Kielder appeared to be listening to whatever Father had chosen to expostulate on, though James could not guarantee the accuracy of that evaluation. The duchess’s social mask was far more polished than Miss Artemis’s, who looked unmistakably bored and inattentive at her sister’s side.
The duke never had bothered to hide his annoyance with people. He didn’t do so in that moment either.
Does Father have any idea how little His Grace cares for his company?
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