Lady Pamela (6 page)

“Josiah–”

“–but might t’ her.”

“To her?” said Benjamin, “To
her
?”

“The lady.” The valet cocked his head toward the floor below, where Lady Pamela and her maid had stood only minutes before. “All fancied up, like she’s on her way t’ some rumpus.”

“
Enough
.” Lord Torrance had raised his voice. Josiah stopped at once with another shrug.

The duke gave his servants considerable latitude in their address, and he’d been especially lax with Josiah, whose underlying loyalty was without question. Benjamin felt himself to be the Duke of Grentham by odd chance more than anything he’d reason to deserve. It was chance only that the old duke had no sons, that the second brother had not survived his childhood, and that his own father had died so young. But by chance or not, he would not tolerate disrespect toward a young lady of his acquaintance.

“Lady Pamela Sinclair’s dress, or demeanor, or...or anything, is not your concern,” Benjamin told his valet. “And isn’t it time to finish that accounting of the second floor? If we’re to find a housekeeper, we cannot continue to sleep in her chambers.”

“As you wish,” said Josiah. The valet retreated down the hallway toward the two suites of rooms that were intended, as best Benjamin could tell, for the Duke and Duchess of Grentham. Lord Torrance, with another sigh, leaned against the balustrade for several more minutes, his gaze wandering tiredly about the front areas of the house. The exterior of Marchers was in a disastrous state, and he could only imagine what Lady Pamela had thought of the even worse conditions inside.

Everything was filthy and covered in dust. The woodwork needed to be oiled and polished–all of the woodwork, and there must be acres of the stuff, enormous rooms paneled in costly oaks and mahogany, and yard after yard of balustrade, crown moulding, and rail. The ceilings were in fair shape, he supposed, but the floors would need scrubbing, and polish according to their types, whether marble, or wood, or...whatever they might be. Sometimes it was difficult to tell, through the dirt.

And Benjamin didn’t even want to think about the windows.

The duke berated himself regularly for not paying at least a visit to London before decamping to the Wiltshire estate. If he had only known, thought Benjamin, repairs could have started months ago. If he’d only been told.

Lord Torrance had hardly set two feet in Marchers that first day, before rushing off in a pelting fury, directly to the offices of Charles Waverly.

But the solicitor had only thrown up his hands.

“I’m sorry, your grace, truly I am, but–”

“Why wasn’t I informed?” roared the duke.

“I didn’t know!” said Mr. Waverly. “My father kept Lord Torrance’s affairs–the old Lord Torrance, you understand–entirely to himself.”

“Your father,” said the new Lord Torrance, “is a brass-faced scoundrel.”

Mr. Waverly sighed. “My father,” he said, “has been dead one month this Tuesday.”

The duke’s outrage collapsed.

“Oh, my– I’m terribly sorry–”

“And I don’t blame you for being angry, not at all. I’ve been looking through the old duke’s papers, his instructions to my father, you see, and it’s really most peculiar–”

“The old duke’s instructions?” scoffed Benjamin. “How can there have been any instructions? The rats have had run of the place for a decade!”

“That’s just it,” said Mr. Waverly. “
Those
were his instructions. The old duke insisted that nothing in Marchers House was to be touched, repaired or looked after in any way.”

This was astonishing. “Why?” asked the duke, horrified to think that the current state of the townhome was the result of deliberate neglect.

The solicitor shook his head. “I’m not sure. But there seems to have been some family disagreement–”

Ah. Lady Guenevieve again, thought the duke. Helène had told him her mother’s story, at Luton.

“–and I do remember my father mentioning something of the sort. That the duke’s daughter had ruined his life in London, and he thought to make a ruin of matters in return. But I had no idea that a
house
was involved.”

Ruin Marchers in return. It was an irresponsible, illogical decision. But then, as Benjamin had learned, people didn’t always make sense. People’s feelings didn’t always make sense.

He had left Mr. Waverly with a handshake and an apology, and a promise that the new Duke of Grentham would not take his cues from the old. He had returned to Marchers determined to restore it to proud existence as a jewel among London townhomes, a monument to his family name.

But the amount of work involved, the sheer, overwhelming back-breaking labour–

 Benjamin could afford the cost of repairs, of course. Still, as he began a more detailed inspection of Marchers, he found himself greatly troubled by the consequences of his uncle’s wrath. Any house, however grand, would suffer after ten years or more of neglect. And Marchers seemed to have suffered more than most. The house seemed to
feel
the slight thrown upon it, seemed downcast and lonely–

The old duke’s anger, thought Benjamin, had bred nothing but destruction. And rats.

He remembered their first look at the place, he and Josiah. The house had been run aground, indeed.

He needed to hire a housekeeper. He and Josiah had worked like ploughmen for three weeks, side by side, to make even the smallest part of Marchers fit for habitation. The housekeeper’s suite, at the rear of the ground floor, was now clean and aired out, with new rugs underfoot and its windows re-glazed and snug. Two beds had been prepared in adjacent rooms, occupied for now by Lord Torrance and Josiah, and if the duke’s bed looked little better than his valet’s, ’twas the best they could manage.

Meals had been a bigger challenge. They had found the kitchen covered in rat droppings, and Benjamin had nearly given up the entire scheme at the sight of it, but Josiah had said, no, he would contrive some way to roast a piece of meat. The valet had been as good as his word, and they now dined, nightly, on lamb or pork, and a concoction of flour and water that Josiah referred to as ‘ship’s biscuits.’ Hard on the teeth, Benjamin had discovered, but tasty.

Perhaps it had been a mistake to arrive in London as he had chosen, unheralded, unannounced to any of the
ton
. The duke could have easily rented another home nearby, residing in comfort while an army of workers scrubbed Marchers House from attic to cellar, replaced windows, repaired the brickwork and sounded for dry rot–

Ratcatchers
, Benjamin reminded himself, his thoughts momentarily diverted. He had once again forgotten ratcatchers. He would send Josiah out to hire a man first thing the following morning–

Perhaps he should have hired a housekeeper from the start. But a housekeeper meant maids, and gardeners, and footmen–all the panoply of a great household–and ’twould be the end of his nameless existence in London. All society would know of the Duke of Grentham’s arrival within days, if not hours, and
she
would know, too.

What would she think?

But what did she think, now? The table and candlestand had not escaped Lady Pamela’s notice, the duke realized. She knew that someone was living in the house.

Still, he told himself, she would have no reason to believe that someone to be Lord Torrance. Dukes did not reside in filthy houses strewn with rat droppings. A night watchman, perhaps–that’s what she would think. So he still had a bit of time. Time, at least, to consider his role in London society, or whether he would choose any role at all. And what he should say, or not say, the next time he chanced to cross paths with Lady Pamela Sinclair.

Benjamin closed his eyes, remembering how she had looked as she had walked through the chaos of his home. Much the same as before, he realized. Her slim, neat form had not changed–

But you already knew that, didn’t you? said a small voice.

Yes. He already knew.

* * * *

Josiah Cleghorn, valet to the Duke of Grentham, made his way down the wide second-floor hallway, muttering to himself.

“Dead in love he is,” said Josiah, thinking about the duke. “And her in love, too, mebbe. Hard to tell with those grand ladies. But coming in here like that, uninvited, just to have a look-see–”

Josiah shook his head. This idea of staying in London, not telling nobody, made no sense to him. The duke was a duke, he figured. An a-
ris
-to-crat. People here set all sort of store by that, didn’t they?–ought to take advantage. Instead of them being down on their knees scrubbing out filth like the scabbiest sea dog.

He’d seen enough scrubbing on deck, thank ye all the same, and his knees were a fair piece older, thought Josiah, than the duke’s.

He was willing to do the work. He was happy to cook for the duke, scrub floors and wash windows for the duke, do anything Benjamin asked of him. Josiah Cleghorn would follow Lord Torrance into Hades, right enough, and not look back. Only fair, the man having saved his life, pulled him out of the drink like yesterday’s dead cat.

But he could see that the work here would take years for the two of them alone. The duke could see it too, he figured.

“Wants to see her,” Josiah continued, still muttering, “and don’t want to see her. Scrub enough floors, mebbe put off deciding a good long while.”

The valet was aware of the duke’s attraction to Lady Pamela. Had seen it from the start, those months ago in Bedfordshire, and watched it grow during the few weeks they had spent at Luton Court. Lord Torrance was always popular with the ladies, right enough, and not that he hadn’t paid them some attention–but this lady was different. The man hadn’ forgotten her a moment they’d spent in Wiltshire, and that was the truth.

Josiah felt the familiar pangs of guilt. He shouldn’ said nobbut ’bout the lady, he could see that now.

Josiah turned a corner, found the room he was looking for and opened the door.

“Blast and damn!” muttered the valet, regarding the wreck that was–formerly–the old duke’s bedroom suite. He’d seen this set of rooms before, on their first tour of the house, but felt a renewed indignation at the sight of the broken windows and crumbling plaster.

If he had ever owned anything like Marchers, thought Josiah, he would’a taken care of it.

He walked about the suite, sticking a penknife into the wood of the windowsills and mouldings at odd places, checking for rot, and cataloging the various other repairs that would be needed before the room was habitable.

The flooring of the bedchamber–a fine parquet of walnut, as best he could see–was in especially bad condition. Josiah rubbed his knee reflexively, and grimaced at the thought of the hours of mopping and polishing that would be required.

Perhaps it was time for him to take matters in hand, thought the valet. Him being the one who weren’t in love, and more likely to have some sense. The duke had declined to advertise his presence to all those fancy London folk–the
toon
, they called themselves–but Josiah could think of an easy way around that obstacle. The valet had made a fair acquaintance with some of the local tradesmen during the last few weeks, and an even better acquaintance with the denizens of the local public house. He’d been close-mouthed, right you are, but it wouldn’t take more than a word or two to change that.

The servant’s grapevine, they called it. Josiah felt confident that Lord Torrance, who was an innocent to all matters of gossip, would never understand how the cat had gotten out of the bag.

And it were for his own good, after all.

CHAPTER FOUR

Lady Detweiler, of course, was the first to hear the news. She had arisen at a painfully early hour that day–hardly a moment’s later than twelve o’clock, a scandalous time to be up and about–with the express intention of visiting Lady Marthwaite’s
salon
.

Patience Marthwaite was the silliest of females, but always amusing, and she was a matchless source of
ton
gossip. Lady Detweiler had occasion to stand in awe of the woman, hen-witted as she was, for anticipating even Amanda in some choice bit of scandal.

And this day’s intelligence had not been a disappointment.

“Oh, my heavens,” called out Patience, upon seeing Lady Detweiler at the door, “you have no idea what I’ve discovered! No idea whatsoever, my dear, the town is absolutely a-twitter!”

“Good morning, Lady Marthwaite,” said Amanda, handing her wrap to the waiting footman. Patience sometimes became astonished over the most minor of
contretemps
; she would not raise her hopes as yet.

“Lud!” said Lady Marthwaite, unable to keep her seat in all the excitement. She rushed forward to greet Amanda, as the other ladies in the room–three or four fellow hen-wits, Lady Detweiler noticed–smiled and nodded, waiting for their hostess to take the lead.

“The duke! The duke is here!” Patience clutched Lady Detweiler’s elbow, propelling her toward the sofa. “Henry! More brandy, if you please!” she added, addressing the footman.

“The duke?”

“Yes, the duke! In London, at his house, it’s been deserted for years, of course–I can’t imagine what old Rupert was thinking–and not a word to anyone mind you, but Agatha–my maid, you know–heard it from the viscountess’s abigail, and she heard it from Lord Whatcomb’s valet, and
he
–”

Lady Marthwaite prattled on at top speed, unhindered, with Lady Detweiler knowing better than to attempt to stop the flow. Patience became confused when she was interrupted; ’twas better, and far quicker, to wait until she stopped of her own accord. The brandy arrived forthwith; Amanda sipped it slowly, waiting.

“–but Marchers is a ruin, they say, an absolute
catastrophe
, why the duke is staying there is beyond my imagination, and Lady Teasbury says–”

Marchers.

Ah, thought Amanda. So Lord Torrance has finally come to town.

This was truly Lady Marthwaite’s finest hour, and Amanda was tempted to drag out every detail. But ’twould not do to express too much interest, she decided, or to bring Lady Pamela’s name into what was certain to become a frenzy of matchmaking stratagems.