I've Got My Duke to Keep Me Warm (The Lords of Worth) (9 page)

“We’ll manage quite fine on our own.”

“
Humph
. Very good then.” Margaret grunted her assent and, with a final arch look at Jamie, lumbered up the wooden servants’ stairs.

Jamie watched her go, realizing his mouth was still hanging open. He closed it with a snap.

“Are you hungry?” Gisele asked him, poking her head into a pantry.

He was, but in light of the last few minutes, the inconvenience now seemed rather inconsequential.

“What the hell is going on here?”

“I’m looking for the cheese,” came her muffled voice as she rummaged in a pantry.

Jamie sank unfeelingly onto one of the benches. “Cheese?” he muttered.

“Did you want some?” She reappeared triumphantly, a large round in her hand. Her expression changed as she caught sight of him. “Are you ill?”

“Who are these people?” he managed.

“What people?”

“Margaret, for one.”

“She’s the cook.”

“And before that?” he barked.

“What do you mean?” Her eyes were wary.

“Pugilist? Assassin? Body snatcher?”

“Ah. Margaret used to own a flash house.”

Jamie stared. “Of course she did. Until she
retired
, I must assume.”

Gisele looked at him curiously. “Yes.”

“Her references must have been stellar.”

“Don’t be an ass.”

“Almost as good as the references the horse thief submitted when applying for his job as coachman. Or the secretary upstairs in the study who is working on creative accounting.”

“George spent eighteen years in the Royal Artillery. He only does the books as a favor to Her Grace. While he’s adequate at balancing sums, he’s most accomplished at making things explode.”

“Because every duchess needs an artilleryman on staff,” he mocked.

Gisele carefully placed the cheese on the table. “Is there a point you’d like to make?”

“What the hell are these people doing here, Gisele?”

“Their jobs. Which, by the way, they are exceedingly good at.”

Jamie lurched to his feet. “I despise it when you do this,” he fumed.

“What?”

“Get all cryptic. And secretive. How the hell am I supposed to help you when you continually refuse to explain anything?”

She regarded him steadily, as if wrestling with something in her mind, before sitting down opposite him. “Do
you not think there might be people who would seize the chance to reinvent themselves given the opportunity? That if they could, they would alter the circumstances fate forced upon them?”

Jamie stared at her, uncertain if she was talking about the servants or herself.

“I owe the life I have now to the duchess,” Gisele said, answering that question. “And so do the people who work here. Like me, they have pasts, yet it is only their present which truly matters. And like me, they are doing their best to make that present count for something good.”

“Good? The cook just offered to have the marquess killed and sold for dissection!” he hissed.

“I can’t think of anyone more deserving,” Gisele muttered darkly. She looked up at him, a strange amusement dancing in her eyes. “Are you suggesting I reconsider her offer?”

Jamie sat back down with a thump and rested his head in his hands. “How can you find any of this
funny
?” He peered at her through his fingers.

“Because the alternative is unacceptable. And I—all of us—have come too far to ever go back.”

Jamie dropped his hands. “But you are. Going back, that is,” he clarified. “You’re here now. In London.”

Gisele looked down at the scarred surface of the table. “Four years ago the only thing I wanted was to escape. To escape with Helena, somewhere where we could never be found. But now…” She trailed off inaudibly.

“Now?”

“Now it is my responsibility to make sure what happened to me doesn’t happen to Lady Julia. Now I am no longer afraid.”

He could hear the determination in her voice, and
something inside his chest turned over. A sudden need to touch her, to make her feel protected, blindsided him. He cleared his throat, not liking the thickness that had gathered in it.

“Our responsibility.”

“What?”

“You said ‘
my
responsibility.’ I corrected you. It’s
our
responsibility to see this to the end.”

Gisele stared at him, her eyes suspiciously bright.

“You’re not in this alone,” he said evenly. “You hired me, remember? And I’d like to keep the horse. I’ve grown quite attached to him.” He gave her a solemn smile. “Provided he’s still here next time I go looking.”

She laughed, and that beautiful sound was worth everything.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Jamie couldn’t look away from her. “Gisele—”

“Her Grace wishes to see you both upstairs.”

Sebastien’s voice made him jump. Jamie hadn’t even heard him come into the room.

Gisele sprang to her feet and hurried to where Sebastien stood watching them. “How was your ride in?” she asked her friend.

“Uneventful. Yours?”

“The same.”

“Good.”

Jamie heard the importance of that simple exchange and the relief underlying it.

“I heard laughing,” Sebastien suddenly said, looking confused.

“I was being informed of the benefits of creative
accounting,” Jamie explained, hoping to get a reaction out of the man.

“Hmm-mm.” The valet appeared not to have heard him and was instead eyeing Gisele with speculation.

Gisele was already halfway up the stairs by now, clearly eager to see the woman she had called family. “Let’s go. Her Grace does not appreciate being kept waiting.”

The manor house Jamie had grown up in had been large, but it had also been a country home and had served its purpose with understated practicality. There was nothing practical about his current surroundings. He found himself in a gleaming hall, white tiles polished to such a sheen beneath his feet that he could see his reflection. Towering columns of alabaster boxed in the room, and chandeliers and sconces dripped and glittered with crystal and light. Large vases were set into niches along the walls and added a blaze of color. The main staircase soared up and away on the far end, a confection of glossy marble and wrought iron that beckoned guests onward and upward. Even the ceiling was a dizzying kaleidoscope of plaster moldings and color.

Gisele had barely given the chamber a glance, but now she stopped to wait for Jamie.

“You’re either stalling or stunned.” She sounded entertained.

Jamie gestured to the grandeur around them. “I’ve never been in a room quite so…”

“Ostentatious?”

“Useless.”

Gisele snorted. “It’s what is expected, of course, and
certainly from a duchess. Many people put a great amount of importance on possessions such as these.”

Jamie didn’t miss her implication. “The duchess not being one of them?”

Gisele only smiled.

“She must be rich.”

“Obscenely.” Her smile widened into a devilish grin. “Now come.” She moved toward a door set into the side of the hall, opening it and gesturing for him to precede her. “After you.”

Cautiously Jamie stepped into a drawing room and was instantly swallowed by a profusion of gold, yellow, and dark wood, all brought to life by an abundance of candelabras and the glow from a well-lit fire. The furniture was French, beautifully carved pieces upholstered with lavishly patterned fabric. His feet sank into a deeply piled rug, butter-yellow in color and matching the swaths of yellow silk hanging against the walls, tied artfully with gold cords. He barely noticed any of this.

What he noticed was the chickens.

Glass chickens, porcelain chickens, and clay chickens. Jeweled chickens, gilt chickens, and silver chickens. Poultry fashioned from wood and pewter and bronze covered every surface. A dozen mounted roosters in their full plumage perched on the mantel of the fireplace, the flames reflecting devilishly in their beady glass eyes. A fat hen was embroidered on a large cushion propped on the settee, and a profusion of smaller cushions were placed in its wake, each graced with the image of a fuzzy chick. A mirror hung over the fireplace, and Jamie took an involuntary step closer to ascertain that it was, in fact, eggshells adorning the edges.

“Close your mouth, Jamie. It is unbecoming.” Gisele pulled the door shut behind them with a gentle click.

Jamie did a slow circle. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, think of something fast because I would imagine—” Gisele didn’t finish her sentence before the door opened again and a woman swept in with the grandeur of a queen.

She was nearly as wide as she was short, and her white hair was piled on top of her head in a style Jamie hadn’t seen in fifteen years. Her gown, however, was cut to the height of fashion and embroidered intricately with gold thread, and the jewelry she had on would have made a monarch or a thief salivate.

The woman turned to face them, and that was when Jamie saw the chicken under her arm. This one, however, unlike its comrades, was very much alive.

“Close the door,” she ordered, and Gisele obeyed. “This is Iain’s replacement?” The elderly woman took out a quizzing glass and held it to her eye, examining Jamie from head to toe.

“Yes.”

“Very good.” She nodded her approval. “Handsome, although if he closed his mouth he would be more so.”

Jamie snapped his jaw shut for the second time in as many minutes.

“His name?”

Gisele stepped forward. “May I present Mr. James Montcrief. Mr. Montcrief, this is Her Grace Eleanor, the Duchess of Worth.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Grace,” Jamie said carefully, sketching a polite bow.

“Montcrief?” The duchess’s voice cut through the air
with the command of a general’s. “
Captain
James Montcrief? Of the First Dragoon Guards?”

“Formerly, Your Grace.” Jamie cut a glance at Gisele, who was frowning slightly.

“Have you met?” Gisele asked.

“No. Not until just now.” The duchess stuffed the protesting hen unceremoniously into a cage, not taking her eyes off Jamie. She came around the settee and took Jamie’s hand in her own. “An honor, Captain Montcrief. It is not every day one gets to meet a true hero and not a peacock stuffed into gold braid who can’t ever get the story straight twice.”

Jamie flinched. “It is
Mister
,” he clarified, “and while I thank you for the sentiments, I am not a hero.” Certainly not to the men who had died under his command. “War produces survivors, not heroes.”

“
Psht
.” The duchess ignored him. She turned a speculative eye on Gisele. “Did you know who he was when you hired him?”

Gisele was looking slowly between Jamie and the duchess. “I’m not sure I know who he is now,” she said.

“I see.” The speculation was focused back on Jamie. “You didn’t tell her.”

“Gisele—ah, Miss Whitby is aware I was a cavalry officer, Your Grace.” Jamie stood ramrod-straight, wondering with a trepidation bordering on dread what it was the duchess thought he should have disclosed. “She is also aware I sold my commission after Waterloo.”

The duchess ignored him. “Captain Montcrief is a highly decorated cavalry officer. He was promoted twice to the title of captain—not by purchase, but by his commanding officers for gallant conduct. Rare and telling.”

“You told me your father paid for your commission,” Gisele said to Jamie.

“He did,” the duchess answered for him. “As a cornet.”

How the hell did the Duchess of Worth know that? More bewildering, why would that information be of any interest to her?

“The circumstances of war being what they are, Your Grace, there were regrettably a large number of vacancies that required filling. My promotions were a matter of convenience.” Jamie did not want to have this discussion.

“Poppycock,” the duchess disagreed pleasantly. “You were promoted because you were one of the few who knew the value of discipline on the field.” She released Jamie’s hand and motioned him over to a large wardrobe. She released the catch and the doors swung open, revealing a mass of maps pinned to the interior and shelves filled with neatly ordered files, each bound with string and labeled with a date and a location.

Jamie stared, recognizing the maps for what they were immediately. Battle plans, maps of topography and troops. Details of numbers and units and regiments. Arrows drawn in colored ink showing advances and retreats. Infantry, cavalry, artillery. A map of Quatre Bras and Waterloo hung prominently near the top, but Jamie made no move to step any closer. He knew each rise and hill and rock of those bloody fields. He felt the terror, the suicidal recklessness, the despair, and the guilt course through him all over again. He could smell the stench of burned powder and burned flesh, of guts and death, hear the sobs and screams of dying men and dying horses. He had no interest in going back, literally or figuratively.

The duchess riffled through a stack of loose papers
until she found the one she wanted. “The First Cavalry Brigade acquitted themselves well in their initial charge of d’Erlon’s left flank. Why in God’s name did they not stop?”

There was no judgment in the words, just a blunt, detached curiousness. How could he respond? How could he describe how inexperienced English cavalry officers, drunk on the taste of victory, had recklessly spurred their men over a shattered French infantry toward enemy lines? Jamie had tried to stop them, a desperate, futile attempt to turn them back. But in the end, two brigades of Englishmen on exhausted, bloodied horses had been cut off from British lines, and the French lancers who had been waiting beyond the thick smoke for their own taste of slaughter had descended like vultures.