A Duchess by Midnight (7 page)

“And then I would like you to rank them in order of their effectiveness.”

“What for?” she said warily.

“So I know which ones to let go, of course.”

“But you can’t do that!” Clara exclaimed, horrified.

Lady Irene lifted a brow. “Can’t I? Over the past few weeks I have been observing the household staff and I must say, I find them appallingly lazy. Which is only to be expected, I suppose, given they’ve had no one to watch over them since your mother died.”

“They aren’t lazy! They are exhausted and overworked!” Clara jumped out of her chair, hands curling into angry fists of indignation. “And if you fire them the ones who remain will become even more so. They depend on this job for their livelihood. Many have been here since before I was born!” And she could not imagine seeing a single one of them leave. They were her family, as much as her father had been.

“Your loyalty is misplaced, Clara. Which is only to be expected, I suppose, given how close you are with the housekeeper and that red-haired maid. What is the housekeeper’s name? Agnes, isn’t it? I believe Agnes is getting on in years,” Lady Irene said when Clara remained stubbornly silent. “She is paid the most and she works the least. Retirement would no doubt do her well. And that red-haired maid is far too careless. Why, just yesterday she misplaced my favorite hairbrush. The dimwitted fool put it in Gabriella’s room, of all places.”

Clara’s heart jumped into her throat. If she lost Agnes and Poppy… if she lost Agnes and Poppy she did not know
what
she would do.

“I can help,” she said impulsively, desperate enough to say – and do – anything that would ensure her little family was not broken apart any more than it already had been. “I can help them. I – I can do the laundry and dust and help with the cooking.”

“
You
?” Lady Irene scoffed. “Help the servants? Now you are simply being foolish.”

“I wouldn’t mind. Truly,” she insisted when her stepmother rolled her eyes. “I already know how to cook and I am a very hard worker. You wouldn’t have to pay me and–”  

“Very well,” Lady Irene interrupted quickly. A bit
too
quickly, Clara thought. “I suppose we can try it, at least for a time. What can it hurt? Hopefully it will instill some much needed discipline in you, if nothing else. And if it does not work then I shall simply let the staff go as planned, beginning with that old housekeeper.”

Clara bit down hard on her bottom lip. She would make it work. She
had
to make it work.

“When would you like me to start?”

“Tomorrow morning is as good a time as any, I suppose. Of course we’ll have to get you some different clothes. No use dirtying up your dresses and having to spend more money on new ones. Your old gardening frocks should suffice. I had them moved to the upstairs attic. Be a dear and fetch them down, won’t you? Unless…”

“Unless what?” Clara asked when Lady Irene hesitated.

“Unless you wanted to move your things
up
to the attic. It would only be temporarily,” Lady Irene said with an airy flick of her wrist. “My sister is visiting soon, and I could not very well ask
her
to sleep in the attic, could I? Besides, Henrietta tells me you have an unusual fondness for the third floor. Your mother used to paint up there, did she not?”

“She did but–”

“Splendid! I will have one of the maids help you. Now if you will excuse me my dear, I have quite a few letters to write.”

As Clara walked out the parlor she happened to glance back over her shoulder. Seeing the curling smirk on Lady Irene’s face she was filled with the uncomfortable impression that this had somehow been her stepmother’s grand plan all along… and she was but a pawn in a game she did not understand.

“What do you
mean our mother is coming to visit,” Thorncroft said flatly.

“Exactly what I said.” Shrugging out of his waistcoat Adam unbuttoned his wrist cuffs and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows before pouring himself a glass of brandy and settling into an empty wicker chair. He stared thoughtfully across the back lawn, fingers tapping idly against the side of his glass before raising it to his mouth and taking a sip. “She should be here by the end of the week.”

Far more restless than his brother, Thorncroft prowled across the large open terrace, the heels of his boots clicking rhythmically on the gray stone. Dozens of sheep grazed quietly in the field behind the formal garden, their dingy winter coats freshly sheared to reveal the soft white fleece beneath. To his west the sun was slowly sinking lower and lower into the sky as though pulled by an invisible string. Its shimmering descent marked another day come and gone.

Another day without his son.

Another day without his wife.

Another day spent enduring Adam’s endless prattle.

“Did you invite her?”

Adam snorted into his brandy. “What kind of a fool do you think I am? One does not
invite
our mother anywhere. You should know that as well as anyone. She goes where she pleases, when she pleases. And right now it pleases her to come here. Oh it won’t be that bad,” he said when he saw Thorncroft’s expression. “Humor her for a few days. She’ll grow bored and return to town. You know the country life has always bored her.”

“It has always bored
you
and yet here you are, still bothering the piss out of me.”

“That is not a very brotherly thing to say.”

Thorncroft fixed Adam with a cold, unblinking stare that had made lesser men tremble in their boots. “Forgive me if I am not feeling very brotherly.”

“Sod off,” Adam said cheerfully. “If I wasn’t here the pretty maid with the big tits would have found you dangling from the chandelier days ago. You need me, whether you admit it or not.”

The dark truth – the truth he had never admitted out loud, even to himself – was Thorncroft did not
need
anyone. He never had. As a duke his acquaintances were endless. But his gruff, prickly nature and brooding temperament made it all but impossible for people to get any closer than arm’s length, even his own family. Katherine had come the closest. She’d touched his heart in a way no one else ever had. And his son… Thorncroft’s throat convulsed. He still could not think about his son. His bright-eyed, chubby cheeked, mischievous son. Robert should have been running around chasing fireflies while his mother stood by Thorncroft’s side, her head heavy on his shoulder. Instead they were both in the ground, their bodies slowly decomposing, never to look upon another sunset ever again. What were the words had the priest said as he’d scattered a handful of dirt upon their glossy black coffins?

Earth to earth; ashes to ashes; dust to dust
.

He had also spoken of their ascent into heaven. Not being a religious man, Thorncroft had never given much thought to what happened to a person’s soul after their body left this world. Having his wife and son taken from him in such a brutal manner had not helped him with his relationship with God, but Katherine had always been devout in her faith and he knew that if there was a place in the sky where angels sang and the roads were paved with gold that she was there now, watching over their little boy while he chased fireflies into eternity.

“Care for a drink?” Adam asked, holding up the decanter of brandy he’d stolen out of the study. Amber liquid sloshed temptingly inside the glass carafe but Thorncroft shook his head. The days of drinking himself into a mindless stupor were behind him. He had responsibilities. Tenants that were depending on him. Business deals that needed his full attention. Land grants that had to be written. For what was work, if not another way to drown out the voices in his head?

“Suit yourself,” his brother said with a shrug before topping off his glass. Kicking his legs up on the terrace railing he reclined as far back as his chair would allow, slouching down until the top of his head was barely visible. “You know, I always thought of the country as a place where women went to have babies and men went when they no longer had the energy to chase after women. But it’s all rather peaceful, isn’t it? The clean air. The quiet. The fluffy white things.”

“Those ‘white fluffy things’ are sheep,” Thorncroft said dryly.

Adam squinted. “Is that what they are? I thought they were unusually small horses.”

“What would you have done if you’d been the heir instead of the spare?” Thorncroft asked, genuinely curious to hear his brother’s answer. He knew Adam would not take offense to the question. While some brothers were irrationally jealous of their second tier placement in the family tree, Adam had never displayed even a flicker of resentment. Quite the contrary. He relished being the spare, if only because it gave him all of the wealth and prestige of being a duke’s son without any of the responsibility. 

“Enjoyed myself,” Adam said without hesitation. “Which is more than can be said for you. Promise me you aren’t going to marry right away. I know I suggested it before, but I’ve since changed my mind. You’re only twenty-one, you know. You have an entire life of sin and debauchery ahead of you.”

Thorncroft went to the railing and leaned against it. In the field a tiny lamb cried for its mother. The ewe answered with a low, patient call and the two quickly found one another again. Watching their swift reunion, he felt a dull clenching in his gut. “That will not be a problem as I have no intention of ever marrying again.”

“And leave
me
responsible for continuing the family line?” Tilting his glass back, Adam finished off the brandy in one long swallow. “I think not. You’ll find another wife,” he said with confidence. “Just give it time. In the meanwhile you and I are going to drink every pub dry between here and Gloucester before we make our way to London for the season. You’re going to be the talk of the entire town, you know.” His teeth flashed white in the encroaching darkness. “‘Tragically Widowed Duke of Thorncroft Seeks a New Bride.’ I can see it now. The gossip rags are going to have a bloody field day with you.”

Which was precisely why Thorncroft had absolutely no intention of getting within twenty miles of London. “I am in mourning,” he reminded his brother with a dark scowl. “Give Katherine’s memory some damn respect before you try to sell me off to the highest bidder.”

Adam blinked innocently. “No one’s trying to sell you off, let alone me. I only want what’s best for you. You’re too serious, Andrew. You always have been even before… well, you know.” He sobered. “I know you will never be able to replace Katherine. God knows she was a gem and you were lucky she ever agreed to marry you. But that doesn’t mean you should write off the possibility of ever finding love again.”

Thorncroft’s hands tightened on the railing until his knuckles turned white.
Love
? Love was an empty promise that had stolen everything away from him. Love was having your heart ripped out of your chest while it was still beating. Love was holding the broken bodies of your wife and son, knowing there was nothing you could do to save them.

“Love is for fools and poets and men too drunk to know any better,” he growled. “I can assure you of one thing, brother. If I ever do marry again it will not be for love.” 

Seven Long Years Later

Clara liked to
whistle as she worked. It did not matter that her pursed lips could not carry a tune (or at least it did not matter to
her
). Whistling helped her pass the time. Time that would have otherwise dragged by in a long loop of endless chores for which there was no end in sight.

Struggling to lift a heavy basket filled with soiled bed linens, she caught a glimpse of herself in the hallway mirror and couldn’t help but smile at the disheveled young woman looking back at her.

Reddish gold curls clung to her temple and the nape of her neck, plastered there by the summer heat. More sweat dampened the skin between her shoulders and breasts, causing the simple brown dress she wore to itch unbearably. Yet even hot and sweaty and red in the cheeks, there was beauty there. Beauty she did not yet see in herself.

When Clara happened to glance upon her reflection she still saw an awkward girl with freckles that were too bold and a bottom lip that was too wide and a chin that was too stubborn. What she did not see was the elegant arch of her cheekbones or the delicate, ladylike tilt of her nose or the sweeping lashes that framed bright, inquisitive eyes the color of a clear sky on a warm summer’s day.

At twenty years of age, Clara had grown into exactly what her stepmother feared she would: a stunning young woman whose sweet, wholesome allure and natural grace was simply unparalleled. Which was why Lady Irene had kept Clara secluded at Windmere while she and her daughters enjoyed season after season in London, attending one ball after another while they searched for the perfect husbands.

Had Clara been interested in fancy dresses and sparkling jewels and dancing until dawn she might have resented being left behind, but the truth was that while her body had gone through a myriad of changes in the seven years since her father’s tragic death her rebellious mind and her wild spirit were still very much the same.

Suffice it to say that if given the choice between spinning around a ballroom in the arms of a handsome stranger or sitting on the bank of a pond throwing bread to a flock of ducks she would have picked the ducks every time.

“There you are!” Rounding the corner clutching a similar basket to the one Clara held propped against her hip, Poppy exhaled a weary breath and leaned against the wall. “This is the last of the pillow cases from the third-floor closet. Why Lady Irene has us wash perfectly clean bed linens I’ll never understand.”

Clara grinned. “Because she’s Lady Irene.”

It was, all things considered, as good an explanation as any she could have given.

“When are they returning?” Poppy asked as the two women carried their baskets down the grand master staircase – which they were only allowed to use when Lady Irene was away – and veered left past the parlor and the music room to a narrow door that led directly to the side lawn.

A tidy mess of confusion, the side lawn was filled with tubs of water, buckets of strong-smelling lye, ribbed wash racks, and maids running hither and dither. Wash day, even at an estate the size of Windmere, was no small task, particularly when there was a strict deadline to meet.

“The day after tomorrow, I believe.” Dumping the contents of her basket on top of a large pile of similarly soiled linens, Clara shaded her eyes with the side of her hand as she searched for Agnes. A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of her mouth when she found the housekeeper standing atop an overturned bucket, bellowing orders like a navy general commanding a fleet of ships. No matter how many times she told Agnes not to stand out in the hot sun, the older woman still did as she pleased. It was an admirable – and frustrating – quality.

“I will be right back,” she told Poppy before she marched across the lawn and confronted Agnes with both hands on her hips and a knowing gleam in her eye. “What do you think you’re doing? There is no reason for you to be out here.”

The housekeeper scowled. “There is every reason when these fools can’t complete a simple task without constant supervision. You there!” she yelled, pointing at a young maid holding a scrubbing brush in one hand and a chemise in the other. “That needs to be cleaned by hand! What have I said time and time again? The brushes and wash racks are to only be used for the curtains and towels and bed linens! Honestly,” she muttered under her breath before she stepped down off the stool. “Like chickens with their heads cut off, they are.”

“They’re doing fine,” Clara said even as she stepped neatly in front Agnes’ line of vision to prevent her from seeing a maid who was doing precisely what Agnes had just said not to do. “And you need to rest. Come on. Let’s get you a cold glass of lemonade. Then you can sit in the parlor and be lady of the manor.”

Agnes’ mouth stretched into a mulish frown, deepening the lines across her forehead and the corners of her eyes. “If there is anyone who should be sitting in the parlor with her feet up sipping lemonade, it’s you. Why you’ve continued to work like a common servant all of these years when we both know–”

“Not now, Agnes. Please,” Clara implored the housekeeper as they made their way inside. “We have been over this again and again. I would much rather be here doing laundry with you than stuck in London with them.”

In all this time, Clara had never told a single soul why she’d shed the mantle of her noble birth and chosen the life of a common maid. Only Lady Irene knew why she had done it: to protect those that she loved. In doing so she had played right into her stepmother’s cold, calculating hands. But she didn’t care. Not if meant keeping Poppy and Agnes from being thrown out on their ears.  

“If your father could see you now…” Agnes trailed off with a shake of her head. “You’re a lady, Clara. More of a lady than the three of those witches combined. You should be wearing fancy dresses and white linen gloves and holding the arm of a duke.”

“A duke is it?” Clara smiled wryly. “Even if I did wear a fancy dress and white linen gloves I would still be the daughter of a baron. No duke would like twice at me.”

“Only because you never take the time to look at yourself. You are the spitting image of your mother,” Agnes declared. Stubbornly shaking free of Clara’s grip, she bypassed the parlor and instead went up the back staircase, her breathing growing more labored with every step. “Lady Gwen was…the most…beautiful woman I…have ever…seen,” she gasped. “Until…you were born and I knew…then…that–”

“My beauty could move mountains and make grown men weep.” Clara rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes, so you’ve said a hundred times before.” Rather alarmed by the housekeeper’s red face, she helped Agnes up to the landing and guided her down the hall and into the guest bedroom. Light and airy with a canopy bed and white curtains, the room was exclusively reserved for Lady Irene’s sister whenever she came to visit.

Or so Lady Irene thought.

“Lay down,” Clara instructed as she opened the windows to allow in a cool breeze, “and rest. I will bring up some lemonade and refreshments.”

Though Agnes huffed and puffed and grumbled, she did as she was told. Reclining back on the small mountain of pillows she closed her eyes and breathed a deep, heavy sigh. By the time Clara returned with a pitcher of cool lemonade and a platter filled with various meats and cheeses the housekeeper was fast asleep.

She set the refreshments aside and stood over Agnes for a few moments, watching the steady rise and fall of the older woman’s chest. With her eyes closed and her body dwarfed by the oversized mattress and small mountain of pillows Agnes looked every inch her sixty-two years. She should have retired half a decade ago, but stubbornness – and her devotion to Clara – had kept her on at Windmere even when her hands began to fail her.

The knuckles, once smooth, were now knotted and swollen with arthritis. On a good day she could keep up with her chores without batting an eyelash, but on a bad day she fought her body to complete even the simplest of tasks. Lady Irene hadn’t noticed, not yet, but she would soon. And Clara knew that Agnes’ deteriorating health would be just the excuse her wicked stepmother had been waiting for to finally let the cantankerous housekeeper go.

It was no secret the two women despised one another. Agnes was the only servant who dared stand up to Lady Irene and had gone toe to toe with her more than once over the years. It was a wonder she hadn’t been fired already. But Clara had kept true to her word and Lady Irene – against all imaginable odds – had kept true to hers as well.

They’d never again spoken about the agreement they had made in the parlor all those years ago. At least not with their words. But a single glance was telling, and when Clara’s temper threatened to boil over all it took was one knowing stare from her stepmother to remind her why she was mopping floors and dusting chandeliers and hemming her stepsister’s petticoats.   

“I will not let anything happened to you,” Clara whispered as she pressed a tender kiss to Agnes’ forehead. “You will have a home here at Windmere for as long as you wish. I promise.”

The housekeeper’s lashes fluttered, but she did not wake. Grabbing a handful of cheese – she’d forgotten to eat breakfast – Clara tip-toed from the room and closed the door silently behind her.

“This cannot continue.”
Standing in the middle of the formal drawing room with her arms held rigidly at her sides and her prominent nose held high in the air the Dowager Duchess of Thorncroft stared down both of her sons without blinking.

At fifty-seven years of age the dowager duchess was every bit as intimidating as she had been in her youth. For even as a debutante dressed in virginal whites with her hair in soft curls no one had ever dared describe Annette as ‘beautiful’ or ‘lovely’. Strong was used instead. Strong and tenacious and determined. As the fourth daughter of a viscount with no means of furthering herself up the social ladder aside from her own wit and charm she’d had to be.

It was that strength and tenacity that had seen her through the death of two husbands and the birth of two sons.
Two sons,
she reflected darkly as her gaze shifted from Andrew to Adam and back again,
who have been trying to deliver me to my deathbed ever since they emerged from my womb.

She loved her boys. They were infinitely precious to her. More precious than her estate in the country or her house in town or her countless jewels and furs, all bestowed upon her by her late husband… and the few discreet lovers she had taken since his death a decade ago. But there was no doubt that the last seven years had sorely tested just how deep that love ran.

She was not asking for much. Just that her boys – most specifically Andrew – settle themselves down with pretty wives who would give them handsome sons to continue a ducal line that had started nearly five centuries ago.

“Get up,” she said, a hard edge of steel sharpening her tone as her gaze dropped to the blue velvet sofa where her youngest son lounged as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

Adam had always been the more devil-may-care of the two. It was in his nature to be wild and a little reckless. Because she had Andrew – and by turn Katherine and Robert – the dowager duchess had turned a blind eye to his philandering ways. But her daughter-in-law and grandson were both gone now, taken far before their time, and if she could not free Adam from the claws of dark despair that had snatched him away from her then it would fall to Andrew to produce a viable heir.

A troubling thought indeed.

“Get up at once and do something productive with your life or so help me God I will write you out of the inheritance!”

Adam lifted his head and looked sideways at his brother. “Can she do that?”

Standing up out of the chair he’d been sitting in for the better part of an hour while his thoughts drifted – as they always tended to do – to the wife he’d loved and lost, Thorncroft looked down at his brother with vague amusement. “No, but I can. Do as she says, brother, before you send her into another fit of apoplexy.”

The dowager duchess glowered. “I have never succumbed to a fit of apoplexy in my life.”

“And we wouldn’t want you to start now.” Springing off of the sofa with surprising ease given the amount of brandy he’d imbibed the night before, Adam grinned at their mother and pressed a smacking kiss to her cheek. “What would people say about us then? The cold-hearted duke, his ne’er-do-well brother and the fainting dowager duchess. We could be our own sideshow.”

Thorncroft risked a glance at their mother, the corners of his mouth tightening to suppress a smile when he saw her expression. If a single look was capable of killing a man where he stood then Adam would have surely turned to ash. “You incite her at your own peril, brother.”

“I know,” Adam said with a careless shrug. “But if I didn’t, who would?”

The dowager duchess closed her eyes. Thorncroft could all but see her counting to ten, a method she’d used often over the years to prevent herself from losing her temper. A duchess, particularly a dowager duchess, was always expected to be calm and collected even during the most trying of times.

When his mother’s eyes opened there was no hint of anger swirling in the cool gray depths, but there
was
a gleam of determination that immediately put Thorncroft on guard.

He had indulged his mother’s frequent visits over the past few years because he knew it pleased her to see him and – though she would never admit as much out loud – she was lonely. But he had drawn a firm and hard line at allowing her any influence over his social life. To her credit she had given him both time and space in the year following Katherine’s death which was more than he could say for his damn brother. But on the very day his year of mourning expired she had taken up the cause of finding him a new wife with vigor, even going so far as to invite young, bashful debutantes to his doorstep.