Matilda ran her finger down the page, mostly to touch Mr. Wentworth’s crooked, slashing penmanship.
“One suspected your unannounced visit, rude though such behavior might appear, was in fact a gesture of concern, my lord.”
“Wentworth concern is a fierce variety of the polite interest you might be acquainted with, so fierce that I must warn you, Miss Maddie: You trifle with Duncan at your peril. He has suffered much, and I won’t allow you to heap more difficulties upon him.”
Trifle with Duncan Wentworth? Matilda wanted to do more than trifle with the man, and that was cause for alarm. Under the warmth of her covers, in the darkest hours of the night, she had considered the complications resulting from an affair with Mr. Wentworth and lectured herself endlessly on the folly thereof.
“I am a temporary employee in Mr. Wentworth’s home, Lord Stephen. Even if he would entertain familiarities from a woman on his staff, I doubt a lady in my circumstances would appeal to him.”
Lord Stephen rested his walking stick across his knees. The cane wasn’t a delicately carved ornament but in fact functional. Close examination revealed a mechanism near the handle that doubtless released a bayonet from the base. The handle was gold, meaning it would make a heavy cudgel for fighting in close quarters.
“A lady in your circumstances,” he said, “which remain undisclosed, and yet those circumstances trouble me.”
“Then I’d advise you to school yourself to patience. Mr. Wentworth gave you that cane, didn’t he?”
Lord Stephen ran a long, pale finger down the dark shaft, the way some people would pet a favored hound.
“For my eighteenth birthday. He had it made in Berlin and it was waiting for us when we arrived. I like guns, but this cane is the only weapon I own personally. I am not by nature violent, and owe you an explanation for my protectiveness where Duncan is concerned. He doesn’t take an interest in women.”
Ah, well. There were men like that. They either preferred the company of other males or they simply weren’t ruled by lust. Matilda had met many such men and generally liked them. Her late husband had been more interested in his automatons and music boxes than in chasing the maids, and thank heavens for that.
Until meeting Mr. Wentworth, Matilda’s interest in men hadn’t been much in evidence.
“Mr. Wentworth’s business is his own, Lord Stephen. I wish you’d keep any gossip you’re determined to share to yourself.” A lie, of course. Matilda had a terrible curiosity about Duncan Wentworth. From his journals she’d learned that he was not a happy man, and yet he was a good man. Most unhappy men took the other road and found fault with others all along the way.
“Not gossip,” Lord Stephen said. “One shudders at the insult. I offer an explanation, if you please.” He used the tip of his walking stick to nudge at a bouquet of purple chrysanthemums on the table. “In five years of living with Duncan in close quarters, I lost count of the fair young ladies whom I either attempted to charm or had pleasant encounters with.”
“This is not fit talk between near strangers, my lord.”
“In all those years,” he went on, “Duncan might have allowed himself three private dinners with very discreet, comely widows. The ladies invariably made the overtures, and they were invariably ladies of means and standing of whom he never spoke personally.”
Exactly. Duncan Wentworth was a gentleman. A true, old-fashioned gentleman.
“Duncan’s missing a foot, you see,” Lord Stephen said, nudging the bowl again. “When it comes to the ladies. He had some falling-out with his vicar back in his curate days, something to do with a woman, or misbehaving with a woman. I was too young at the time to even know I had a cousin Duncan. It all went to hell somehow, and Duncan became a teacher.”
“Youthful indiscretions, even your youthful indiscretions, don’t interest me, my lord. Your willingness to malign Mr. Wentworth is of even less moment. If you don’t mind, I have work to do.”
“I do not malign him, you daft woman. If I love anybody—and I am fairly certain I do not—I love Duncan. He’s short on charm, long on loyalty. Smarter than he’s given credit for because he’s also humbler than your average genius. I should know—I am a genius, in case you’ve overlooked the obvious. I’d be dead four times over but for Duncan. If you mean him any harm at all, whatever you’re running from will seem like salvation compared to what I’ll do to you.”
This diatribe skirted the edges between an adolescent tantrum and an entirely believable threat. Lord Stephen shoved to his feet—he could be nimble, Matilda must not forget that—and he maneuvered around the end table.
“Is that all you wanted to say to me, my lord?”
He fluffed his cravat, which was perfectly centered, the lace falling just so. “If you need help, I can finance a journey anywhere you’d care to go, no questions, cash by this time next week. I’ve already sent for some funds to tend to a few projects I’m planning.”
The offer was tempting, ye gods was it tempting, except Papa and the colonel were doubtless watching every port. Matilda remained seated, because in this instance, she was the lady, and Lord Stephen the presuming young fool.
“You will have to learn to give up your cousin Duncan sometime, my lord. He loves you too. I read that on every page of these journals, so you will have to be the one to let him go. I wish you good day.”
A family resemblance emerged as Lord Stephen’s countenance went blank. Mr. Wentworth frequently wore that unreadable expression, though often all it meant was that he was thinking. He was prodigiously given to thinking, and as much as Matilda loved reading his journals, she also longed to meet him across a chessboard.
More cause for alarm.
“I see why he’s taken notice of you,” Lord Stephen said. “You have the same ability he does to tell the whole tale from a few snippets of the text. Heed my words anyway, Miss Maddie, for everybody’s sake.”
The quiet crackle of the hearth fire was joined by a soft snick and a glint of steel. Then Lord Stephen was holding out a single purple bloom to Matilda.
A warning. The drama was charming, and the loyalty touching. She took the blossom, though the whole discussion had been unnerving as well.
Lord Stephen left, shutting the door behind him, and Matilda moved to a chair closer to the hearth. She was still twirling the little flower beneath her nose and staring at a description of Lord Stephen in the rigging when Mr. Wentworth’s characteristic double knock sounded on the door.
* * *
“Miss Maddie, good day.”
Duncan had dodged breakfast, claiming an appointment with a tenant. The meeting had gone well, inasmuch as everybody had made small talk, predicted snow, and consumed a portion of bitter ale appropriate to warding off the chill, or perhaps to purging the bowels.
Duncan had taken a few cautious sips rather than find out.
“Mr. Wentworth, good morning,” Miss Maddie said, tucking a single purple blossom back into the bouquet on the parlor table. “I’ve been sailing with you from Nice to Rome. Lord Stephen is in the crow’s nest, and the captain is swearing about crazy Englishmen.”
Duncan ought to make up another excuse—looking for Stephen, perhaps, who dwelled perpetually aloft in one sense and frequently provided an occasion for profanity, today being no exception.
“You will think we left a trail of foul language across the Continent,” he said, closing the door. “Might I join you?”
“Of course.” She was safely ensconced in a reading chair, preserving Duncan from the folly of sitting beside her.
He took the corner of the sofa nearest the fire, also nearest to her. “I paid a call on the vicar on my way back from Mr. Jingle’s tenant farm.”
“Is he related to the Jinks on your staff?”
“The boy’s uncle. My steward is dishonest.” Well, wasn’t that the most inept conversational transition ever to be dumped into a lady’s lap?
“You have alluded to this previously. I gather many stewards are less
than honorable, though most know to be discreet about it.”
“I stopped by the vicarage to introduce myself to the shepherd of our local flock and to inquire of him whether a physician who refuses to attend the ill when summoned is deserving of a quiet spiritual rebuke.” Another graceless conversational gambit, but then, Stephen’s remarks had been unsettling. Had his lordship left the door open on purpose, or had he meant to threaten Miss Maddie in private?
“What did the vicar say?”
“He said, ‘More tea, Mr. Wentworth?’ and ‘How are you getting on at Brightwell, Mr. Wentworth?’ Mrs. Newbury’s very life was imperiled, for all Dr. Felton knew, coin was available to compensate him, and he would not come because my housekeeper has skin as dark as some Italians.”
Duncan was furious—still, though Mrs. Newbury had recovered—but he was also bewildered.
Miss Maddie set aside the journal. “Are you certain the physician based his decision on that factor?”
Rather than meet her gaze, he stared at his hands, a pair of good, strong hands that could have delivered a very succinct sermon to the idiot doctor.
“I want to beat the blighter to flinders, Matilda. I want to cast him into the bowels of a ship and force him to listen to the moans of the dying for weeks, while his own strength ebbs.…” He curled his fingers into fists, then opened his hands, trying to let go of violent impulses. “We outlaw slavery here in England and pretend its evils don’t touch our shores.”
Miss Maddie regarded the bouquet, probably the last they’d have for months. She had gained some color, and her features were no longer as sharp. Duncan liked simply looking at her, though more than once, Stephen had caught him staring.
“I can draft you a letter,” she said, “informing the doctor that because his healing vocation is untrustworthy, you will in future depend on the local herbwoman in case of sickness. She is reputed to be reliable and genuinely dedicated to the well-being of others. For serious illness, you will send to London for a consultation with His Grace’s personal physician.”
Duncan propped his chin on his hand, turning that plan over in his mind, looking for flaws, and finding none. “That is brilliant. That is worthy of Stephen in a rare mood, also quite sensible. Do we even have a local herbwoman?”
“Cook would know, but in my experience the healers in England are a safer bet than the physicians or surgeons.”
“Splendid.”
A happy silence took root, because Miss Maddie had solved one problem. Shame in rural communities was often more effective than a cudgel. Duncan had forgotten that.
“You mentioned your steward,” she said, curling her feet under her and tucking her hems over her toes. She wore one shawl again, a heavy plain wool blanket of a garment, but only the one.
“Mr. Trostle is skimming transactions, mis-stating sums collected, and intimidating all who’d call him to account by either involving them in his schemes or implying that he’ll make them sorry for crossing him.”
“How long has he been in his present post?”
How long since Duncan had noticed a woman? Truly noticed that the curve of her cheek and the curve of her eyebrow—the same graceful arc—both begged to be traced by his fingers? He liked Miss Maddie’s stillness, her focus on her task, her lack of airs.
He also liked her figure, though she kept that swathed in shawls for most of the day.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked.
“Mr. Trostle,” she said. “Has he been on the estate long?”
“Four years or so. His Grace hired him through a factor. The duke well knows that matters are in disarray here, and he expects me to sort it all out. Stephen says I should sack Trostle, make a public example of him, though I’d like for an understudy to have a few weeks to gather information first.”
“Sound. Advance your pawns before you draw enemy fire.”
A chess analogy. How that suited her. “Do you play? Chess, that is.”
A struggle ensued, if her expression was any indication. While her features remained composed, her eyes told another tale. A mention of chess—a humble old game usually enjoyed by totty old men—moved her nearly to grief.
“I have played, mostly against my father.”
Did Duncan tell her that her father’s name was no longer secret? Did he continue to hope that she’d share that information freely?
“I want you to know something,” he said, rising to cross the room. “I overheard Stephen’s threats earlier. He left the door open, as a gentleman should, and in his great passion to protect me from the schemes of one impecunious woman, he ensured any passing footman would hear his daft declarations as well. Stephen enjoys drama.”
Miss Maddie untucked her feet and drew her skirts over them. A glimpse of plain black stockings ought not to affect Duncan, and yet, it had. Slender calves, slender feet. High arches…he wanted to get his hands on them, learn those contours with his palms and fingers and lips, and he wanted—even more—to play chess with his amanuensis.
Country life was driving him daft.
“Stephen is protective of you,” Miss Maddie said. “I admire loyalty in anybody.”
“Loyalty, though, can be misguided. Stephen mentioned that the church and I parted on bad terms.” Stephen had made a muck of passing along information he himself didn’t understand.
Miss Maddie toed on her slippers. “Shame on the church, then.”
She sat halfway across the room, and yet, Duncan caught a whiff of roses. “You’re sure I’m innocent of wrongdoing?”
“As certain as I am of anything. Had you kissed somebody’s daughter, miscounted the money in the building fund, or committed another of the usual indiscretions, the bishop would have posted you to some congregation in Northumbria, where you’d have served out a few years’ penance. The Church of England cannot afford to forgo the services of its indentured curates.”
She was wonderfully logical. “I was guilty of a worse sin. I expected moral consistency from my superiors, and did not handle disappointment well.” More than that, he might tell her someday.
He took down a chess set from the shelves beside the window, and Miss Maddie’s gaze fixed on the wooden box in his hands.
“Shall we play, Miss Maddie?” Shall we play at trust and affection and all manner of folly? Duncan knew better than to even think that, but what had years of knowing better earned him except shelves of messy journals and a plundered estate?
“I would love to.”
Chapter Eight
Thomas Wakefield’s staff was charmingly eclectic, in the opinion of his Mayfair neighbors. His porter was Corsican, his butler German. One footman was Spanish, another Portuguese, though they looked remarkably alike to English eyes. The housekeeper, the chef, and his staff were French, the under-footmen included an Erse-speaking Highlander and a Russian. One of the grooms was Rom, while the coachman was an Englishman.
Between them all, they could eavesdrop on almost any conversation and bring back an accurate report. In the unlikely event the staff had to speak before one of Wakefield’s guests, the language used was deliberately broken English.
In the servants’ hall, their grasp of world affairs would have shamed most Cabinet ministers and did provide frequent enlightenment to their employer. Their card games were unintelligible to any save themselves.
“Has our intrepid colonel decamped for the Midlands?” Wakefield asked his porter. Carlu was responsible for managing the network of post boys, urchins, hostlers, and other worthies who contributed to Wakefield’s store of knowledge.
Despite the chill air, this discussion was taking place in the town house garden, where eavesdropping was nearly impossible, though safety in the form of surveillance from the house and the mews was guaranteed.
“If the colonel is traveling to Melton, he took an odd route,” Carlu replied. “To go north, we’d expect a departure from Smithfield, taking the Great North Road up through Peterborough.”
“Bollocks.” For invective, fe
w languages could compare with English. “He went west?”
“Out Oxford Road, sir.” Carlu tugged his scarf up around his mouth. Doubtless the man was cold, but he was also hiding his words from prying eyes. “His coach followed with very little luggage strapped to the boot.”
The worst of all possible reports. “He’s going to Brightwell, damn him and his commanding officers. He might not know precisely where the place is on the map, but it’s a ducal holding, and the locals take pride in that.”
A neglected ducal holding where Matilda had formed some of her best memories, drat the luck. The painting over the mantel had been her sole suggestion when Wakefield had been appointing his London house. The one time a guest had admired the painting, Matilda had sent her Papa such a look of admonition he’d known that to sell that landscape would have been a betrayal in her eyes.
“Sir, I hesitate to be indelicate,” Carlu said, stamping his feet, “or to suggest that all possibilities have not come under your most excellent consideration, but even an intrepid colonel, if traveling an imprudent distance from his equipage in this devil-begotten English weather, might suffer an accident.”
Carlu’s dark eyes held such hope, such a plea for the reasonable course. He was Corsican, after all, and reasonable to his very toes.
“What if Matilda loves him?” Wakefield asked. “The bloody bore managed to turn her head. Why else would she have agreed to marry a man who will drag her all over creation, though he can’t play more than middling chess?” Matilda longed for a permanent home, the one simple comfort Wakefield hadn’t been able to provide her until eighteen months ago.
She was a woman who could move easily in the best society of any European court, and yet, she was a stranger to her homeland.
“If she loves that arrogant excuse for a clodpole in scarlet,” Carlu said, “then she will grieve for him, but what manner of lady in love leaves her fiancé’s side without a word and stays away from him for months?”
A damned clever one. “No accidents, Carlu. I need the colonel to remain in obnoxious good health for the nonce.” Wakefield needed as well to find Matilda before the clodpole—the colonel—did, and Brightwell was one place Wakefield had not thought to look.
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