The Duchess's Diary

by Allison Lane

  Mr. Lascar checked Cook’s eyes, then rolled her gently onto her back. “I’m sorry, Miss Harper.” His hand rested comfortingly on her shoulder. “She’s gone.”

  A sob escaped before Faith could contain it. Then darkness blinded her to all but the pain ripping through her chest.

  She should have done more, should have gone to the trustees long ago. She’d vowed to care for those who’d served so long, vowed to arrange their well-deserved retirements. But she hadn’t. Cook had died in pain, guilty over her slipping skills, hurt that the duke had abandoned them, furious that they had wasted so many years for nothing. Ned, Polly, and the Baineses must fear similar fates.

  Now Faith would deal them a worse blow by leaving them behind. It was dishonorable, breaking promises she’d repeated for years. To the Baineses in particular. She owed them so much…

  She wished Buster remained alive. He had let her cry into his fur and cuddle close at night, easing the grief she’d expected to last forever. She needed that uncomplicated devotion now, for once again a prop had been jerked from under her feet.

  Cook had been the first to draw her across the line separating servant from master. She’d offered a terrified child a soft bosom, a willing ear, and sound sense liberally laced with biscuits. Her warmth had made life bearable.

  But now she was gone…

  How much time passed, Faith didn’t know. When she opened her eyes, Mr. Lascar was holding her against a very wet shoulder, his lips pressed lightly into her hair. Polly and Ned were gone.

  “You loved her,” he said softly.

  “She— She and Mrs. Baines looked after me when I first arrived. Without them I would have been lost.”

  “They became your family.” He set her carefully aside and paced to the narrow window. “It is always painful to lose someone close, but she lived a long life. It was her time.”

  “I know.” She felt bereft without his warmth, but she could hardly blame him for moving away. It was surprising enough that he’d stayed this long. Pulling herself together, she rose. “Thank you for your assistance. I can manage from here, so we needn’t disrupt your work any longer.”

  The words sounded stilted, but they were all she could manage.

  He nodded brusquely and left.

  Choking back another sob, Faith raised Cook’s hand to her lips, then headed for the kitchen. Catherine would expect lunch. Upsets in the servants’ hall could not be allowed to impinge on the family.

  Once she made sure Polly had the meal in hand, she tracked down Baines.

  * * * *

  John returned to the library, his emotions in turmoil. If only he could help Miss Harper… But she’d pulled away.

  He couldn’t blame her. It must have grated to ask for aid from the man who had forced attentions on her. Losing composure was always embarrassing, but with him…

  It was good she’d refused further assistance, he reminded himself. He couldn’t risk another touch. He’d barely managed to hold her quietly while she wept. Her pain scored his soul. Walking away had been worse.

  He forced his mind back to the new roof design. The drawings needn’t be exact as long as Chester could see the concept. But even preliminary sketches would take several days. There were many rooms. And he needed a second copy for the trustees.

  At least the library provided an excellent work space. Its large tables let him spread out his notes – far more than usual. Creating them had kept his hands away from Miss Harper. But going through them all would take time.

  The packet for the trustees would contain more information than the one for Chester, including maintenance records and his justification for all the proposed changes. So he’d borrowed – with Miss Harper’s permission – the estate books. Already he’d found entries more than ten years old documenting leaks.

  He must also build a strong case for future maintenance. Unless Chester kept the place up, there was little point in expensive decorating.

  Pulling the ledgers closer, he set to work.

  Chapter Nine

  Richard brought me to London for the opening of Parliament. It feels odd when men flirt with me, hoping I will press their causes with Richard. Even their wives toady. I can only relax with other duchesses, but they are few and mostly quite old. Thank God for Richard’s love…

  Duchess of Westfield, Nov. 1784

  Monday afternoon Faith slipped into the courtyard, hoping for an hour alone. She’d not slept at all last night. Even after she’d crawled into bed, her brain had jumped about, futilely seeking something solid in a world that was crumbling around her.

  Her problem had begun in the state apartments, of course. Kissing Mr. Lascar had left her so mortified that she’d barely forced her feet to dinner that night. The meal had been even worse than expected. Not only had Hortense’s accident unleashed everyone’s tempers, resulting in the most strident arguments she’d ever witnessed, but Mr. Lascar had ignored her, and Reginald had interfered when she’d tried to apologize. She’d had to listen to his poetry for hours to keep him from causing a worse scene.

  Losing Mr. Lascar’s friendship felt like death.

  But what had she expected? No man wanted an unattractive female hanging on his sleeve. He’d made that abundantly clear by shutting himself in the library ever since. Not one question. Not one comment. Other than offering his comfort over Cook’s body, he’d ignored her very existence.

  It was the best solution, of course. She’d proved that her control was inadequate, and that could only grow worse. Her lips still burned from his kiss. Her nerves still pulsed from his touch. He must recognize her infatuation.

  Or was it infatuation?

  Separating reality from fantasy grew harder every day. Was she exaggerating a mild attraction to hold grief at bay? Recalling his touch beat planning a funeral any day.

  Mrs. Foley is gone.

  She forced herself to repeat it, swallowing the tears each repetition raised.

  Cook had acted as surrogate mother to the grieving child who’d landed on Westcourt’s doorstep. The Baineses had ultimately become as dear, but they’d been slow to cross the gulf separating a baronet’s granddaughter from the servants. So it had been Cook who’d dried her tears, Cook who’d welcomed her into the kitchen when her room grew too lonely, and Cook who’d stepped into the breach when it became obvious that there would be no governess, using the kitchen accounts to teach sums and how to manage money.

  Faith had known for more than a year that Cook’s health was failing, yet her passing had been so sudden that she’d had no time to prepare. Nor could she properly grieve, for she was surrounded by those who didn’t care. The family was delighted that Chester must now hire a decent cook. She’d nearly slapped Reginald when he’d chastised her for mourning a servant. Her grief widened the gulf between her and the family, reminding her yet again that she didn’t belong here. Her father had done her a grave disservice by foisting her onto a household so far above her station.

  Even the staff felt more relief than grief, for they had all suffered from Cook’s declining abilities. Only Baines truly mourned, in part because it emphasized how frail his wife had become. She would be next and not too far off.

  Faith’s worst shock had come from Mrs. Baines. Despite that her mind was nearly gone, poor woman, she’d reacted with her first clear memory in days.

  “Betty and I came to Westcourt the same day,” she’d said weakly. “Hired at the mid-summer fair we were. Betty for the kitchen, me for the nursery.”

  “Richard was a babe then, wasn’t he?” she’d prompted, knowing Mrs. Baines had helped raise the eighth duke.

  “Aye, a bonny lad. The sweetest boy you’d ever want to meet. No trace of mean in him, unlike his brother. That Chester was bad through and through. All boys play pranks, but his were malicious. Enjoyed inflicting pain, he did. Had to always be the center of attention. If he wasn’t, someone paid. Tossed a groom in with an unbroken colt because he’d brought Chester’s horse around five minutes la
te. Lad was lucky to escape with a broken leg. But Richard…”

  A smile tugged those ancient lips. “Richard never chastised us. Not even the day I tripped over a rug and spilled water ’cross a letter he was writing. He just says, No harm done, Mabel, and sends the footman for rags. ’Twas Richard who promoted us when Baines and I married. Newly wed himself that year. Installed Betty as Cook at the same time – she used to sneak him treats whenever he came through the kitchen. Never looked down on us. Not to say he ignored his place. We had our job and he had his, but he respected us. Can’t bear to think of Chester taking over. No respect, even for his peers. At least Betty escaped that.” Tears overflowed.

  Faith had patted her hand while she cried. The moment of cogency had not lasted, of course. They rarely did these days. Faith wished this one had not happened, for to waste lucidity on grief seemed unfair.

  But life was rarely fair.

  Forcing her mind back to the courtyard, she pulled weeds from one of the planters. With Baines’s approval, she’d promoted Polly to cook. Excitement was already mitigating Polly’s grief. Faith would have to find a new kitchen maid, though. Maybe the vicar knew of someone.

  Or maybe not. He’d proved singularly unhelpful yesterday.

  She’d spoken with him before services, but the meeting had not gone well. His initial amiability had turned to shock when she’d announced her intention to find a post. Then the questions had started. Did Chester know her plans? What about the trustees? Did she understand what accepting a post would mean?

  When she’d reminded him that she was well past the age of consent and that Chester had no authority over her in any case, he’d reluctantly agreed to inquire about positions. But he’d again urged her to reconsider. Chester would never approve.

  In retrospect, she should have written to the trustees or to a London employment firm. The vicar would do nothing that might jeopardize Chester’s regard. So he would speak to Chester before helping her.

  A shiver trickled down her spine. Chester might refuse to supply a reference and prevent others from doing so. Or he might settle her with the most disagreeable dowager in England. Mrs. Baines was right. He enjoyed inflicting pain and did not tolerate being crossed. His word was law. No protests allowed. He could find her a post, but to leave on her own…

  Why hadn’t she considered that earlier?

  She’d let fear and embarrassment push her into acting impulsively, which could only make her situation worse. And for what? Mr. Lascar did not hate her, despite that she’d behaved like a wanton. He might be more formal – and who could blame him? – but he remained courteous. Without his help, Cook’s death would be unbearable. Who else would have comforted her through the first rush of grief and pain? Despite everything, he remained a friend.

  She moved to the next planter, pondering how to extricate herself from this latest trouble.

  * * * *

  Chester strode into Westcourt without waiting for Baines to open the door. Soon he could turn off the lot of them, and good riddance. They’d irritated him since the day he’d been born. It was time to install a staff loyal solely to him.

  He kept his face bland, hiding curses at this latest delay in settling the succession. The damned investigator kept haring off instead of following the trail. By now, the title should be his, with all its attendant power. Instead…

  Lord Bitstaff snorted as he shut the door behind him. “Place is worse than on my last visit.”

  “Not for long.” Chester reined in his fury. If Bitstaff suspected the truth… “Brought a chap out to see after repairs. Architect fellow.” And young enough to follow orders without question. “Left him hemming and hawing over details.”

  Bitstaff laughed. “Think too much of themselves, to be sure. Never met one yet who could give a straight answer. Chap that redid my town house last year nearly drove me to Bedlam.”

  “Should have reminded him of his place.”

  “I did. Often. But once they start tearing the house up, there’s not much to do.”

  “Some brandy should help.”

  “I’d rather call at your bank.”

  “In the morning.” Proud that his voice revealed none of his seething resentment at the reminder, he pushed open the study door and headed for the brandy. Last night’s game should never have happened, but if he played his hand right, he could retrieve his marker and solve another problem in one fell swoop…

  * * * *

  The last planter sat beneath the study window. Fresh air and new growth had eased Faith’s pain, making it easier to breathe. She’d been too busy in recent weeks to note seasonal changes. Now spring had fully arrived, lightening her heart with scents and sounds. Jonquils and ranunculus were in full bloom. The cherry tree espaliered in the corner rained petals with each passing breeze. Birds sang merrily from its branches.

  A surprising number of birds, she decided, shaking her head. Perhaps they had come to the courtyard because she needed their songs. Or maybe she was turning fanciful. Whichever, it was working. Tension seeped from her shoulders. More tension than she’d realized was there.

  Running Westcourt was a huge responsibility. That she had no legitimate authority made the job harder. But even work shouldn’t preclude enjoyment. Nor should her impending departure. She did not want her final memories of Westcourt to be black.

  “Brandy?” Chester’s voice cut through the air.

  Faith whirled to stare through the study window.

  “If you insist,” a male voice snapped. “I’d rather complete our business, though.”

  Faith nearly groaned, for she recognized the second man all too well. Bitstaff was the sleaziest rakehell in England, a vicious degenerate who was bad enough when sober and downright dangerous when intoxicated, which was his usual condition. Whenever he visited, she made sure the maids worked in pairs with a footman nearby for their protection. Chester never objected when Bitstaff tried to make free of the staff.

  Today his voice was only slightly muddled, but that wouldn’t last. How could she escape the courtyard without drawing notice? If he saw her…

  “The money, Chester,” drawled Bitstaff, turning toward the window.

  Faith shrank against the wall.

  “I told you we would fetch it tomorrow.” Chester sounded annoyed. “You can’t expect me to keep a thousand pounds on hand.”

  “Then why are we here? You could have written a draft.” His voice hardened. “I have an appointment with Yardley tonight that could net a small fortune. If you don’t pay…”

  “You’ll have it in the morning,” snapped Chester.

  “No. We have time to fetch it now. Then I can return to town.”

  “Don’t you trust me?” asked Chester ominously.

  “Of course I do. You always pay, but if we leave now, hard riding will let me keep that appointment.”

  “Impossible. This isn’t London, Bitstaff. The bank closes at three.” The clock tolled a quarter of as he spoke.

  “Why the devil do you bank in this godforsaken place?”

  “Why not? As the bank’s largest client, I receive superior service.”

  “Then demand the banker serve you today.”

  “It isn’t worth it – you’ll kill yourself trying to return by evening. If you were this anxious to keep an appointment, you should have mentioned the draft earlier – you know how far Westcourt is from town. I didn’t suggest it because you never accept them.”

  “I should have made an exception,” growled Bitstaff. “I’ve no love for the country, especially in spring mud.”

  “All the more reason to relax for the rest of the day. We’ll breakfast at nine, then collect the cash.”

  Liquid splashed into glasses.

  Bitstaff growled.

  “Why so hipped?” asked Chester idly. “You know Yardley will meet you as eagerly tomorrow.”

  “French pox. Damn Madame Eugenia to hell!” Bitstaff exploded suddenly. “The bitch cheated me. Five hundred for a virgin, b
ut I swear the girl was a goddamn actress. She screamed and bled just like you’d expect, but no effect! I hate cheats!”

  “You should know better than to buy your virgins in town. Anyone with a fresh face gets passed off as one.”

  “I know, but Madame served me well in the past – for a fee. Who is paying her more?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Chester paused, but whether to think or shrug Faith didn’t know. She sidled toward the door.

  Chester’s voice again froze her against the wall. He’d wandered closer to the window. “I can offer a guaranteed virgin — in exchange for the vowel you hold.”

  “If you mean one of your housemaids, forget it. Fifty if they’re a day and not a virgin among them.”

  “I mean my ward. That limp makes her unmarriageable, but her breeding’s good. You know a well-bred virgin works better than one from the lower classes.”

  “She won’t agree.”

  “Does she have to?”

  “A thousand is way too high.”

  “But think of her breeding. She’ll not only cure you, she’ll provide at least a year of grace. Maybe more. You could finish the business and be gone in time to meet Yardley.”

  “And I could wipe that sneer off her face.” Faith could almost hear him rubbing his hands. “Bitch refused me a kiss. Can you believe it? She—”

  Faith didn’t wait for more. Chester was worse than she’d thought. She’d known he played deep from time to time, but he must be at point non plus to have dragged Bitstaff to Westcourt on so flimsy an excuse. He did not use the local bank. Even the estate kept most of its funds in town. So either he’d hoped to confiscate the estate’s operating funds, or he’d planned to trade her for the vowel all along.

  Had he helped himself to estate funds before?

  It doesn’t matter, she reminded herself, hurtling into the house. Bitstaff would love to despoil her. He knew she despised him, and he was another who never forgot a slight.

  Her skin crawled at the thought of his hands, increasing her panic. Death would be preferable.