Lady Pamela (3 page)

Lady Detweiler had made more than a guess in mentioning the duke’s name just now, and her friend’s reaction had spoken volumes. Amanda had suspected that Lady Pamela harbored a
tendre
for that gentleman, and she had thought the duke strongly attracted as well. Lady Detweiler had schemed to throw them together, at Luton, but it had been a damnably difficult job. Lord Torrance seemed capable of an appalling level of restraint.

Or so she had thought....

But the duke had left Bedfordshire only days after the wedding last February, and Pam had said no more about him. Out of sight, out of mind? Amanda thought not, but Lady Pamela had deflected every question related to Lord Torrance, every not-so-chance comment, with studied indifference.

“The duke? Of Grentham, you mean? Yes, his costume was quite fine, I suppose...”

No doubt Lady Detweiler could have extracted the truth had she wished. But Amanda had hesitated to confront Lady Pam, who had heretofore trusted her with every confidence. The freedom
not
to confide, in Amanda’s experience, was essential to friendship. And after all, what possible troubles could have descended upon the beautiful and much admired Pamela Sinclair? Lady Detweiler had given up thoughts of a direct attack and had waited, biding her time.

So patience
is
rewarded, thought Amanda. How dreary.

“The night of the wedding ball...” began Lady Pamela, haltingly.

Charles and Helène’s wedding ball? Amanda nodded to herself. She had watched Pamela and the duke waltzing at the Luton Court ball, and noticed the tension between them. A lover’s spat, she had supposed, knowing both lady and gentleman too well to believe that either had committed a real offense. And ’twas a vile anger, in Amanda’s book, that could not be turned to passion.

But Lady Pamela had danced with him only once, had she not? Lady Detweiler frowned. She seemed to recall Pam spending the last half of the evening in the company of several harmless, adoring third cousins, and as for Lord Torrance, Amanda couldn’t remember seeing him at all after the first waltz.

“The duke...” said Lady Pamela. Her words were so soft that several moments passed before Amanda realized that her friend had continued speaking.

“The duke?” she prompted, resisting the urge to take Pam by the shoulders and give her a good shake.
Yes, yes, the duke. Now, what about him?

“Asked...Lord Torrance asked me...”

The duke
asked
Lady Pamela...? Lady Detweiler’s mind, never slow, at once rushed forward, making the obvious leap. The Duke of Grentham had asked Lady Pam to become his mistress! All those months ago at Luton... And after knowing her only a matter of weeks. It was not surprising to think that Pam had attracted notice from such a man; still, Amanda thought she now understood the source of her friend’s pain.

Pamela Sinclair had been one man’s mistress already. And although Pam had truly rejoiced in Edward Tremayne’s marriage to the lovely Claire and did not grieve his loss, her days as a
chère amie
were over. She had never said as much, not in so many words, but Amanda knew it to be true. And now, for the duke to ask her to–

“... become his wife,” continued Pamela, almost in a whisper. She colored deeply, and turned away from Lady Detweiler. Amanda, still enmeshed in her own thoughts, frowned. What had Lady Pamela just said?

“I beg your pardon?”

Pam took a deep breath. “Lord Torrance asked me to marry him. Last winter. At Luton.”

Lady Detweiler stared. “But–”

“Amanda, don’t say anything. Don’t say
anything
. I know, I should have told you.”

“But–”

“I couldn’t even bear to think about it myself, I couldn’t think about him. I
wanted
to tell you.”

This was too much for Lady Detweiler. “For pity’s sake!” she cried, flinging her arms out and nearly spilling the glass of brandy, “who cares a fig what you should have told me! What did you tell
him
?”

* * * *

“H’ya!”

Lord Benjamin Torrance, the Duke of Grentham, checked the reins sharply and brought Xairephon, his roan gelding, to a prancing halt. The duke’s Wiltshire estate boasted little in the way of hills; still, the ground rose slightly to the east, and he was high enough to enjoy a sweeping view of the green fields of sweet hay, and to see his home–Corsham Manor–in the distance. The house was a rambling, many-gabled structure, and the most beautiful dwelling in the world, in its owner’s eyes.

Benjamin drank in the cool morning air, appreciative as always of the difference in climate between Wiltshire and central Virginia, where he had resided for most of the past ten years. ’Twas not that he had found the American states unpleasing. Charlottesville, Virginia was a lovely town, nestled in rolling, forested hills, and clean beyond his every memory of English cities. Still, for all the beauty of the new land west of the ocean, Benjamin had never adjusted to the oppressive heat of a Virginia summer, a season which carried well into the current weeks of mid-September.

Pure bliss, to awaken each morning and not find the sheets drenched in sweat. Bliss, too, to work throughout the day without fear of one’s skin becoming red and scalded with the sun. Benjamin had spent his years in Charlottesville working in the surrounding countryside, taming a land for farm and dairy that the forest did not wish to surrender. The well-mannered Wiltshire landscape was soothing and mild by comparison.

He did not regret those years abroad. The work had been demanding, but the duke had ever loved a challenge, and the experience of hard, physical labor was something he believed beneficial for any man.

Bent double, his eyes shielded from the sun by a dingy straw hat, cutting hay. The low, rhythmic sound of the scythe...

It might not have been allowed, if he had remained in England as the old duke’s heir. Young lords did not work in the fields with their employees. Young lords did nothing much at all, as far as Benjamin could see.

After dark, the sound of cicadas was loud enough to drown conversation. At night a man slept, exhausted, from the work of the day.

The Virginia land was an inheritance from his mother and had even been profitable, albeit in a small way, during his last year or two. Profits were welcome, but they had never been the primary reason for his stay in the former Colonies, and when Benjamin returned to England he gave the acreage over to the long-term care of two of his best workers. The profits, such as they were, would remain in Virginia. The gesture had shocked some of his land-owning neighbors; Lord Torrance liked to think his own parents would have been pleased.

Although his generosity would, no doubt, have infuriated the old duke. Rupert Torrance– Benjamin’s uncle and his father’s oldest brother–had died only nine months after Benjamin’s arrival in Virginia. An unfortunate circumstance of timing, for his own father had already passed away, and it was nearly ten years before Benjamin Torrance–the new Duke of Grentham–again saw the land of his birth.

“Tch, tch.”

The duke clucked and lightly spurred Xairephon. The gelding sprang forward. As his mount trotted along, Benjamin mentally reviewed the activities he had planned for that day.

 Pulling burdock weed in the northeast pasture, first off. Cook had warned him not to touch a small stand near the house–she used burdock in tisanes and decoctions–but the rest must go.

Then, the stone wall along the same pasture needed repair, and a small channel to divert water from the boggiest spots needed digging. After that, Benjamin would check with his steward, to see what else might need to be done.

The duke spent as little time as possible in reflection. His own thoughts were lately no welcome friends, and he had found comfort only in the most mindless and repetitive labor. Not one to embrace idleness, Benjamin’s appetite for work had become unquenchable, and all summer he had thrown himself into the chores of the estate, waking at dawn even in the long days of late June, and not sleeping until well after midnight. Not that there was any question about the health of the Corsham Manor lands. James Pharr was a conscientious employee, and had performed his duties as estate steward with diligence. Indeed, Lord Torrance had needed to make an effort to find problems worthy of attention.

Ah– But now that he thought of it, the stable yard should probably be mucked out. “It dunna need mucking every day,” the groom had said, but what did he know? The duke was sure the horses appreciated a clean paddock. The paddock at Luton, for example, there was a fine home for horseflesh. The marquess had taken great care of his Bedfordshire stables. Benjamin remembered them in every detail, remembered Lady Pamela walking through the stables to Duchess, her mare. His mind’s eye still saw her elegant, forest-green habit, the smooth lines of wool limning her every curve.

Could Lady Pamela find Wiltshire as much to her liking as Luton Court? he wondered. The landscape was less wooded and lush than Bedfordshire, but perhaps she could learn to admire, as he had, its gentle charm.

Pah. Shaking his head to dislodge these thoughts, Benjamin urged Xairephon to a swifter pace. His estate was the largest in Wiltshire, but the gelding flew, and they were soon traversing the northeast pasture. The duke swung down from his mount, untied a large roll of canvas sheeting, and spread it out on the ground. He pulled on a stout pair of leather gloves and attacked the burdock with passion, ripping great clumps from the earth and tossing them onto the sheeting. Benjamin hoped that he had found this patch in time, before any of the seedheads had ripened. No sense in doing the whole job over again next year.

Thud
.
Thud
. Burdock weed flew through the air, and the canvas sheeting soon held a respectable pile. Benjamin pulled fast and hard, trying to think of nothing but the feel of the stems in his hands, the odd, bitter smell of the crushed leaves, and the soft sounds of Xairephon browsing nearby.

He had brooded long enough about how matters stood at Luton Court, thought the duke. He had tasks at hand this morning on his own lands. Best to concentrate on them.

Thud
. Another clump flew wide, missing the canvas by yards, and Benjamin stopped, breathing hard.

“They are Burs, I can tell you, they'll stick where they are thrown.”

The line of Shakespeare rose unbidden, unearthed from some schoolboy memory, and he had a vision, with it, of a
person
.

A person, thrown away.

What nonsense. The duke renewed his attack on the burdock.

An hour later it was near done, and Benjamin stood back panting, wiping sweat from his eyes with now filthy gloves. He had any number of men to pull burdock for him, of course. He had any number of men to do anything that needed doing at Corsham. But without the burdock to pull...

He could have removed to London months ago.

He could have seen her, again, months ago.

One last clump was especially stubborn; Benjamin gave it a vicious yank, and the burdock gave way suddenly, depositing him rump over teakettle on the sward.

“Oof.” Chagrined, he stood up and rubbed his backside, grateful that no-one besides Xairephon was nearby. ’Twas clearly time to return to the house, especially as his stomach was angrily complaining that he had once again neglected nuncheon. Hard labor, Benjamin had discovered, needed to be fed. He left the pile of burdock to be collected and burnt, and headed back on the gelding to Corsham Manor.

* * * *

“Hey!”

He and Xairephon were nearly in sight of the house when Lord Torrance saw Josiah Cleghorn approaching, slowly, also on horseback.

So to speak. Even several years in Virginia, a region as horse-mad as England could ever claim, had not been enough to teach a Massachusetts-born sailor to ride. The duke had outfitted him with a child’s saddle, and given him Daisy, the slowest and gentlest mare in Wiltshire. Still–

“Hey! Duke-o!”

Benjamin grinned, glad that no-one else from the estate was present to hear his valet’s latest impertinence. Josiah seemed to delight in devising new appellations for his master, and these were an on-going source of scandal to the rest of the Corsham Manor staff.

Especially to Deavers, Lord Torrance’s ever-so-proper butler. Benjamin had been concerned for the man’s health on the occasion of Josiah’s addressing his employer as “Lord Ben.” He could only imagine what the butler’s reaction might be to ‘Duke-o.’

The valet shouted again, followed by a string of curses. Daisy’s parentage and intelligence were being called into question, it seemed. As the mare plodded forward, Benjamin saw that Josiah’s left foot had become disengaged from its stirrup. Still cursing, the man began a slow slide down his mount’s left flank.

How had he managed it? wondered the duke. Daisy’s back was so broad, her gait so steady, that he would have thought it nearly impossible to fall off.

Clop. Clop.

Benjamin had a vision of Josiah’s other foot catching in the reins, and the man being dragged toward him, face down in the soft turf, at Daisy’s slow but relentless pace. He hurried forward to assist, just as the valet’s fall was complete.

“Bloody ‘ell.”

Although slow to pick up the niceties of ducal address, Josiah had wasted no time in becoming fluent in the local cant. The valet sat up and glared at Benjamin.

“Horses,” he spat, as if that one word expressed it all.

The duke did not argue. “What,” he asked Josiah, “has disturbed your peaceful existence indoors?”

“A letter.” said the valet. “From London.”

London? Benjamin’s heart slammed against his ribs, although he knew it couldn’t be from
her
. A letter from a woman he had not seen, not spoken to, nor written to for this past half a year? Absurd.

Josiah extracted a crumpled envelope from his waistband and handed it to the duke. Benjamin saw at once that the fist was that of Charles Waverly, his solicitor. Waverly was a young man, and had newly taken over the firm from his father, the old duke’s solicitor, who had been in charge of financial matters for the family during Benjamin’s long absence.