0764213504 (12 page)

“Caroline.” Grandfather’s tone was the one he had used on Justin and Cayton when they were children getting into mischief.

Aunt Caro pressed her lips together, her eyes now flashing.

Justin’s chest went tight. He had thought that coming home, having Brook here, having nothing pulling him away anymore, would grant him a measure of peace in the wake of the turmoil.

Apparently not.

Cayton and Aunt Susan had wandered a few steps ahead, and their conversation sounded light and easy as they headed for their gleaming car. They climbed in with a wave to the rest of them as the servants loaded luggage into a carriage.

Their little party climbed into Whitby’s carriage in silence. Grandfather settled on one of the facing seats, determination etching the lines in his face deeper. Justin sat beside his aunt. The door shut behind him.

Aunt Caro cleared her throat. “Susan will be pleased if James pursues Lady Melissa. I assume she is as lovely as her sister.”

“She is.” Justin smiled, though less at the thought of Lady Melissa than at the way Cayton flushed over her. And at the memory of Thate’s scowl when he thought it Lady Regan in whom Cayton was interested. How amusing it would be if his friend and cousin ended up married to sisters.

The duke cleared his throat. “As a grandfather, I pray he chooses wisely. But as the duke, I am far more concerned with who
you
might wed, Justin. This princess turned baroness—do you intend to marry her?”

Aunt Caro hissed out a breath. “Duke!”

“Do not chide me, Caroline.” Somehow, he managed to look both weary and authoritative. “The duchy has been in the Wildon family for nigh unto three hundred years. Am I an ogre for being concerned about the next generation, with ensuring an heir?”

How could Grandfather say such a thing in Aunt Caro’s presence, when he knew how sensitive she had always been about her childlessness? Justin could only see his aunt’s profile,
but he didn’t miss the way her fingers dug into the plush seat beneath her as she said, “That depends, sir, entirely upon your methods of ensuring it.”

It felt as though a bare, live wire had been let loose in the carriage, sizzling and snapping. His grandfather and aunt’s gazes clashed for a long moment, then Grandfather looked at Justin again. “This girl, Justin.”

As if she were just a girl. As if the question were so simple. Justin wanted to look away, but he knew his grandfather expected eye contact. “I don’t know, sir. When I think of the future, I can imagine no other woman at my side through the years. But I . . . She loves me, but it has long been as a brother, a friend. Her feelings have not grown as mine have, and I fear if I push her, declare myself too soon, I would ruin any chances I have.”

The duke’s faded brown eyes went soft. “I understand. But I would know, before I die, that you have chosen a worthy woman to assume the title of duchess. You have always spoken of this girl as you have none other, and now that she is here . . . Well, why do you think I dragged myself from the comforts of Ralin?”

Must every conversation come back to death? “You could yet recover, Grandfather. There is no need to speak of—”

“Hush, my boy.” The duke leaned his head back, gripped his cane. “I am tired, and I have the peace that I leave Stafford in good hands. It is enough. I am ready, whenever the good Lord decides my time is complete.”

Justin could not say the same. He was not ready to let go of his grandfather. Not so close on the heels of losing his father. His gaze now sought the window, though he looked at it rather than through it. “I remember thinking perhaps I could lure Father home for my wedding, mere minutes before . . .”

Grandfather snorted, drawing his focus back inside. “He
would not have come. You ought to have realized that after all these years. If he did not return for his own brother’s funeral, he—”

“Why should he have?” Aunt Caro shifted, folded her arms over her middle. Her face looked as yielding as granite, and from this angle Justin could see her tension in the strained muscles of her neck. “Edward never gave a thought to William. Frankly, sir, nor did you, other than as a stopgap heir. You were far more concerned with molding Justin into your image.” She reached over, patting Justin’s hand as if the show of affection could soften the words. Then she turned eyes on him that were as scorching as blue flame. “Did William ever tell you?”

Something sank into Justin’s stomach. It was too numb to be called fear. “Tell me what?”

“Caroline.” The duke put a world of forbidding into her name.

“He deserves to know how much William loved him. He needs to know—”

“He already knows that, and it’s all he needs to. You will keep your word. So long as there is breath left in my body, you will bite your tongue.” To punctuate it, Grandfather lifted his cane and then drove it back to the floor. “Are we understood?”

Now her fingers settled over Justin’s and gripped. Hard. “Yes, sir.”

The rock in Justin’s stomach doubled in size. “What? You cannot lead into a subject like that only to abandon it.”

But his aunt merely sniffled and averted her face.

“Grandfather?”

The duke’s hard gaze turned on him, softening only the slightest degree. “It is nothing to worry over, Justin. A woman’s nonsense. No more.”

Aunt Caro wasn’t given to nonsense—she was given to faith, had been the one to teach him to pray, to seek the Father, to
always trust in Him. And that place inside where his faith was born quivered now, warning him that whatever this truth was his aunt thought he needed to know, it was far from nonsense.

But it seemed he wouldn’t learn it while his grandfather ruled the house.

Nine

D
eirdre scurried behind Mrs. Doyle, her pulse quickening. “Will they stay the night, then?”

Mrs. Doyle snatched a lamp from the stand near the passageway and lit it. “For tea, they said, but I’ll not be caught unawares.” She spun for the stairs that would take them up to the family levels.

Deirdre tucked a stray wisp of hair into her cap, flying up the stairs after her superior. And pushing down her mounting concern. If they were going to prepare more rooms . . . if tea became an extravagant affair . . .

“I am sorry you will miss your afternoon off.” Mrs. Doyle must have read her mind. “You may take it tomorrow instead, but we can’t spare you today.”

“Of course, ma’am.” The words came out with nary a squeak. But tremors turned her stomach. Pratt would not be pleased if she missed their meeting. What was she to do though? She would just have to report next time they met that Whitby had a new heiress and ask him to translate the journal. The young lady hadn’t missed it yet; surely she wouldn’t in the next few days.

Lady Berkeley—that was what the earl had told them to call her.

A shudder overtook her that had little to do with the cool draft in the stairwell. “Mrs. Doyle . . . what do you think of her?”

“It isn’t my place to form an opinion.” The housekeeper pushed open the needed door, and they stepped into a hallway filled with opulent tapestries and ancestral paintings. “Lady Berkeley looks much like the late Lady Whitby—God rest her soul.”

By rote, Deirdre crossed herself. “But . . .”

“There is no
but
, Deirdre.” Mrs. Doyle’s voice sounded resigned, though, not chiding. “His lordship has decided. And if I might be so bold . . .”

The older woman paused—and if she deliberately wasted time, it must be important indeed. Deirdre drew herself up, waited.

Mrs. Doyle leaned close. “This could be your chance for advancement. That Frenchwoman will be leaving tomorrow, they said. Lady Ramsey offered to help her find a maid schooled in Paris, but there is a chance she could ask you to rise to the task instead.”

Deirdre’s throat went dry. How was she to even try for that?

And yet . . . yet if she could. She would get to take her meals in the housekeeper’s parlor with the upper staff. They would all call her O’Malley instead of Deirdre. She would no longer have to polish all the silver and dust the furniture—her sole task would be seeing to the baroness and her things. Her wage would increase dramatically.

Perhaps then she could get away from her ties to Pratt.

As if he would release her so easily, especially if she served the girl he would no doubt set his sights on. That was too much to hope.

She gathered a smile for Mrs. Doyle. “I shall do all I can, ma’am. But I daresay I oughtn’t to get my hopes up, aye?”

Mrs. Doyle acknowledged that with a movement of her brow, and then she spun toward the bachelor’s wing. “There is little we can do. But I would rather welcome you to my parlor than some pretentious woman from the Continent.”

Well now. Even if she failed to convince her ladyship to take her on, that was something to treasure. Mrs. Doyle’s respect was hard won and worth much. “I thank you for that, ma’am. Truly.”

When they reached the guest rooms, they had no more time for conversation. Lord Abingdon’s room was still made up—thanks be to heaven—and they set to work on the one next to his for the duke. Beatrix and the other under-maids were seeing to rooms for the dowager ladies and Lord Cayton, but sure and Mrs. Doyle would not delegate the task of a chamber for the duke himself.

They worked in efficient, precise silence and then hurried back downstairs. When she saw that the family lingered in the great hall, Deirdre slid into the shadows to wait for them to head to drawing room or parlor. The front door stood open, the line of footmen visible on the steps. His Grace must be having a difficult time exiting the carriage.

The baroness stood by Lord Whitby, her hand resting lightly upon his arm. The pretenders had tried to cling—though his lordship never allowed it for more than a few seconds. They never carried themselves as this one did, either. Fluid grace, it seemed, but with an undertone of pride.

Nothing would be the same again. Unless Lord Whitby changed his mind, this overconfident, self-assured
princess
would be the new mistress of Whitby Park.

Deirdre’s gaze slid over to Lady Regan. She didn’t
look
upset, but she always kept her emotions in check, always strove for peace. Lady Melissa was the one more likely to shout her
opinion for all to hear, and she at least watched the newcomer closely. Perhaps she would issue a warning to her uncle.

Though just now both young ladies seemed far more concerned with the young men in attendance. Lady Melissa’s gaze latched onto Lord Cayton when he entered. Lady Regan kept sending sidelong glances to Lord Thate.

Deirdre sighed. At least Pratt wouldn’t care anymore who Lady Regan fancied.

Turning her eyes back to the blonde, Deirdre watched her loose his lordship’s arm and step forward when Lord Abington entered with the duke. The chances of the lady wanting
her
for a maid were slim as waistlines in a famine. But she had to try. Even if she didn’t like the girl, even if she hoped Lord Whitby soon saw reason and booted her out, she owed it to Mum to try.

The family exchanged words with the visitors. There was bowing and curtsying, and they all paired off. And though she was more interested in the way Lady Regan flushed when she slid her hand into the crook of Lord Thate’s elbow, Deirdre focused her gaze on Lady Berkeley and Lord Abingdon.

The baroness didn’t just rest her hand on his arm, she gripped it. And he didn’t merely cover her fingers with his own, he clung to them. The look they exchanged—
charged
was the only word that came to mind.

By sheer force of will, Deirdre kept her eyes from narrowing. They must be more than friends, those two. And oh, but she didn’t want to be the one to tell Pratt that the new heiress was already in love with another.

As they moved in the wake of the others, Deirdre caught the young lord’s quiet, “Are you still angry with me?”

Lady Berkeley’s chuckle was low and taut. “
Oui
. But I will overlook it for now.”

He said something else, but he had shifted into the language her ladyship’s maid had spoken last night. She again picked
out a few words she recognized as French, but the cadence was wrong.

Whatever he said, her ladyship’s face went serious. She answered in English. “My aunt has arranged for some sport—archery and croquet. Assuming the rain holds off and Lord Whitby can convince your grandfather to stay after tea, we will all have a lovely, relaxing afternoon together.”

Lord Cayton and Lady Melissa partially turned around to share their enthusiasm with that plan, but Deirdre kept her gaze forward and her face clear as they passed by. What did it mean that this girl called Lord Whitby by his title, though she already greeted Lady Ramsey as Aunt Mary?

Deirdre didn’t know. But she would keep her mouth shut . . . and her eyes open.