The Grace of a Duke (11 page)

“She doesn’t have one,” Joshua replied, about to ask if Jane was no longer of interest to Garrett. He inhaled quickly, suddenly wondering how he knew Charlotte didn’t have a sister.
Who told me she didn’t have a sister?
he asked himself. Someone spoke those words to him, not so very long ago.
I haven’t any brothers or sisters
, he recalled as if he’d heard it just yesterday.

Charlotte had!

He remembered her soft voice, coming from somewhere nearby, while his eyes were closed, and he gripped her small hand in his.

In hospital?

It must have been. How long had she been at his bedside? How many days did she sit with him?
No wonder she didn’t seem frightened when I was without the mask earlier.
She had seen the wounds on his face. Had seen them when they were at their worst. But had she seen the others on his shoulder? On the side of this chest and down to his hip? They were far worse, he thought. Perhaps she’d caught a glimpse during the storm the night before, when the flash of lighting lit up the room before he’d pulled her against his body in an effort to hide his nudity and his scars. Those scars were truly hideous, he thought. Bad enough that he felt he could not agree to a marriage when Lady Charlotte was merely out to fulfill an obligation.

Could a disfigured man ever expect some degree of affection from his wife?
he wondered then. Would Charlotte Bingham ever feel affection for him?

Shaking himself out of the reverie, he considered the implications of her statement.
I haven’t any brothers or sisters
. She didn’t have any
brothers
. If the Earl of Ellsworth had no direct heirs, then who would inherit his title? His lands? Was there a nephew or a cousin, perhaps?

“I’ll pack a bag right away,” Garrett spoke, realizing the time for humor was past.

“Take my coach. I want you to look like you’re on official business, at least,” Joshua ordered then. “You can change horses in Guildford and be there tonight. Use the terrace in Grosvenor Square.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Garrett replied, suddenly all business again. He rolled up the floor plans for the dower house and pulled together several piles of papers, deciding he could use the three hours in the coach to get some work done before the sun set. “I’ll be back when I have the answers.”
Which might be several days
, he figured, given all the information he needed to find.
Time for a bit of faro and a tumble or two with Jane.

That last thought made him pause. How could he think something so crass about Jane? He felt affection for the woman, and he knew the feeling was mutual. Their two nights together had been important, to both of them. She’d been forthright with her feelings about him when he’d finally gotten her alone in her rooms on the second floor of The Jack of Spades. Although she claimed not to expect anything of him in terms of a marriage proposal, he made it clear he had no intention of ever bedding any other woman but her. And despite the two months since he’d last seen her, he hadn’t bedded another, instead spending a few minutes each week to write her a short note reminding her that he thought of her often, and he would see her again when he was next in London.

“Send a courier even if you don’t find anything,” Joshua ordered, his comment indicating his impatience.

Garrett paused while gathering his papers and regarded his friend for a moment.
There is something you should know about Lady Charlotte
, he wanted to say. But he’d promised Lady Charlotte he would not tell Joshua of her involvement in arranging the transport and medical care of his friend following the fire. He didn’t know why it was she wanted her role in the duke’s recovery to remain a secret to Joshua, but she had insisted her part in it remain unknown, so Garrett had said nothing to Joshua. And Joshua didn’t seem the least bit surprised to find himself in a London hospital when he finally regained consciousness, so explanations did not have to be fabricated. “You must know she is quite ... smitten with you,” Garrett said quietly, hoping he could at least hint at how he knew Lady Charlotte felt about the duke.

“Because she is obligated to be,” Joshua countered, and then suddenly wondered how it was that Garrett could think that Charlotte had feelings for him.

Sighing, Garrett considered telling Joshua all he knew of the woman who had invaded their household only the day before. What would the duke think if he knew she had risked so much to see to it he get the best care for his burns? That she had angered her father on so many occasions by insisting in public that she was to marry the Duke of Chichester when he was suitably recovered?

The news that Bingham had whipped his daughter was no surprise to the estate manager. Only the timing of the event seemed wrong, somehow. She was due to turn one-and-twenty very soon, he figured. The age at which she was to be claimed by a husband. Whoever that was. He only hoped he’d be able to find evidence that it was Joshua Wainwright, eighth Duke of Chichester, and not some grizzled old fart of an earl who lacked a suitable heir.

Within an hour, Garrett was on his way to London.

Chapter 10

Mr. McFarland Strikes Again

With a purse full of sovereigns and a belly full of ale from a nearby pub, Angus McFarland was ready to make his mark at The Jack of Spades. He knew he smelled of horse; he hadn’t bathed since his long ride from Kirdford, but he had managed to change into a clean pair of breeches and an embroidered green waistcoat that some might have considered foppish. His dark topcoat, older and smelling of tobacco, had at least been brushed, as had his boots. He felt he was as ready as he would ever be.

A quick glance at the tables and the growing crowds around them, and Angus knew in which direction to take his purse.

“Good evening, Miss Jane,” he said with a smile that showed two of his front teeth were missing, both knocked out in pub fights.

Jane Wethersby’s face didn’t change its expression of concentration as she nodded and replied, “Good evening, Mr. McFarland.”

Angus placed his bets, making sure Jane could easily see his purse. If he won a hand, he sometimes snuck a coin to her side saying, “A tip for the dealer,” in a lowered voice, the smell of drink on him getting worse as he downed several glasses of scotch. If Jane happened to look his way, he winked at her, giving her his very best grin.

But throughout the early evening and into the night, Jane kept her expression cool and businesslike, just as she did the other three nights a week that she dealt faro and vingt-et-un at The Jack of Spades.

When her employer, Frank O’Laughlin, came to her side to allow her some time for a break, she excused herself from the table with a nod to the players. She quickly made her way to a part of the gaming hell off-limits to its clients. The back stairs led to the apartments above, where she and several other dealers and some of the hell’s other employees made their homes. Even before she’d reached the stairs, though, she was aware of someone following her.

Turning, she found Angus McFarland hurrying to catch up. “Mr. McFarland, you cannot be back here,” she said in a firm voice. Although the man had several inches on her as well as a body that might best be described as a barrel, Jane wasn’t immediately concerned.

“Oh, but I think I can,” he replied with a nod, “Seeing as how I’m here to make you an offer you cannot refuse.”

Jane stared at the man in surprise and then looked beyond him, hoping one of the gaming hell’s bouncers would realize McFarland was no longer on the floor. The slight movement gave her a great pain; she was stiff from standing so long, and some nights she felt more tense than others simply because of the clientele.

This was one of those nights.

“Perhaps we can talk about this when I return from my break,” she countered, hoping McFarland would agree and leave her alone.

“Ah, come on, Miss Jane. I’ve got me coin,” he said as he held up his purse, as if it was somehow a pass to be in the area off-limits to patrons. “I did a job for Mr. Bingham, I did,” the alcohol making his tongue a bit loose. “Blew up a house so as to kill his cousin.” He staggered and then straightened, his eyes trying to focus on his prey. “So, you’d be wise to ... ta give me what I deserve.”

Jane’s brows furrowed. His eyes were glazed, she saw, and his normally jovial behavior was turning sullen as he regarded her.
He blew up a house?
“Why, where was the house?” she wondered lightly, hoping she could keep him talking. Although his clothes were recently brushed and cleaned, he smelled as if he’d been on a horse. For a very long time.

The big man puffed out his chest. “Down in Kirdford,” he replied proudly.

“Really? All the way down there?” she responded, raising her voice in the hopes that one of the other employees might hear her. “I do hope this ... Mr. Bingham ... payed you well,” she added, finally looking at the purse he held in one hand.
Oh, God!
Garrett was somewhere near Kirdford.
What else did he say about Bingham?
Bingham wanted his cousin dead. Whoever that was.

McFarland stood up straighter. “Isna’ my money good enough for ye?” he wondered then, a look of offense replacing his questioning look.

Alarmed at what she was imagining, Jane took a step back, her foot hitting the bottom step and essentially stopping her retreat. “Mr. McFarland! You are being impertinent!” she announced loudly. “I am not ...
available
in that way,” she stated, raising her voice to sound as stern as she could make it. “That’s why we have Rosy and Violet,” she stated in a conciliatory tone, referring to the lightskirts that plied their trade on the third floor of the establishment. She turned on her heel, held up her skirts, and quickly made her way up the stairs, the sudden sense of
fear
gripping her. When McFarland’s arm wrapped about her waist and lifted her from the stairs, though, she let out a scream and began kicking. McFarland seemed unsteady on the steps; perhaps her kicks would force him to release her. A hand came over her mouth when she started to scream again, though, and when she grabbed at it with her free hands, a searing pain shot through her cheek. Gray enveloped her vision before the sensation of falling replaced every other sense, and then everything went black.

Chapter 11

Lady Charlotte and the Doctor

“That was the last stitch, I promise,” Dr. Regan murmured as he ended the row of tiny stitches across Lady Charlotte’s back.

Thirty-three,
she thought, feeling a bit mortified. “May I see in a looking glass?” she asked, knowing that if she did not at least look now, her imagination would make up ghastly images that might be far worse than the reality.

Dr. Regan reached over to the vanity and picked up a hand mirror. “Of course, my lady,” he intoned as he gave her the looking glass. Charlotte turned her back so it faced the vanity mirror and then held the looking glass in front of her. Visibly wincing at the sight, Charlotte had to take a breath and close her eyes for a moment.

“It looks worse than it is, I assure you,” the doctor said in a quiet voice. “Yes, it will be red for some time, and then it will be white, and all those stitch marks will become tiny white dots, but it will be far better than the raised welt you would have had,” he explained gently.

A tear slid down Charlotte’s face. “Thank you for not saying anything to His Grace,” she said in small voice as she forced a wan smile. “And thank you for ... the stitches. I expect this is far better than it could have been,” she added, trying to seem as gracious as she should. “And thank you, too, for all you did for His Grace after the fire,” she said, finally making eye contact with him. “The doctor in London said His Grace would not have survived had you not done exactly what you did those first few days.” Charlotte still hoped Dr. Regan held no ill will toward her.

She had been headstrong that first day she’d arrived to arrange Joshua’s transportation to London, determined to get him into a more modern facility than the country doctor’s village clinic or the meager hospital in Petworth. How was she to know that William Regan was so experienced with burn patients, him having served first as an army doctor and then as a doctor for the nearby miners who suffered all sorts of maladies as a result of their labors? “I wish to apologize for my behavior. It was rude of me to treat you as I did.”

Dr. Regan regarded his patient with a wistful smile. “My lady, you have no need to apologize for loving a man so much you would do anything to see him survive,” he countered, his bony shoulder shrugging as he made the comment. He pulled a roll of white linen from his bag along with a length of lint.

Charlotte stared at the doctor, shocked to hear his frank comments spoken aloud. “How ... how did you know?” she asked in a whisper, hoping there weren’t any maids within earshot.

One of the doctor’s bushy eyebrows cocked up nearly into his thinning hairline. “I have never known a lady of the aristocracy to exhibit so much concern for a horribly disfigured man as you did,” he stated quietly as he covered her stitches with the lint. “Wainwright’s mother might have, perhaps. She was a good woman. A good duchess. But there were those that thought I should allow Wainwright to die ... so that he might be released from the pain he had to endure.” He said the last words in a quiet whisper, as if he was sharing a secret he hadn’t shared with anyone else.

“No!” Charlotte spoke in horror, a tooth catching her lower lip.

“I took an oath,” Dr. Regan said then. “And I kept it. But had you not been there, I might have allowed His Grace to pass on out a sense of ... pity. He was in a good deal of pain. I hate to admit it, but I truly thought he would die. And, since there were no survivors, not even any Wainwright nephews to inherit, our duchy would have become extinct and the lands returned to the Crown.” He started to wrap the linen bandage under her arm and around to her front and then stopped when he realized it would need to go under and over her breasts. Charlotte took the roll from him and sighed, doing the honors herself. Since she wouldn’t be wearing a corset anytime soon, the bandage could at least act in part of the capacity. Between the two of them, they continued wrapping the linen bandage around her torso several times to cover the lint until he tied the ends together.

Charlotte considered the doctor’s words as they worked in silence. So, the Wainwright line did end with Joshua Wainwright. How many were aware of the tenuous hold he now had on Chichester? Joshua would have to sire heirs to ensure the duchy would continue. He had to know that. Had to know that he should accept Charlotte as his betrothed and marry her – the sooner, the better.

She stared at herself in the mirror and considered her options should he decide not to accept her. She had none, really. If Joshua Wainwright did not take her as his wife, she really had no place to go. Unless ...

“Can he father a child?” Charlotte asked in a voice so small the doctor had to lean in to hear her.

Both his eyebrows cocked up, and Charlotte was sure the man blushed. “Pardon my surprise, but I assumed that you two had already ... consummated your ... betrothal,” he stammered. Seeing Charlotte’s shocked expression and remembering the condition of her back, he added, “I beg your pardon, Lady Charlotte. When I arrived, you two seemed ...” He straightened, trying to regain a bit of control over his features. “I believe he can,” he struggled to get out, embarrassed at his assumption. “He was not injured ... there,” he added with a quick shake of his head.

One of Charlotte’s eyebrows arched elegantly as a grin lit up her face. “If His Grace decides we should be married, then you shall be the first person I invite to the wedding ceremony,” she said with a nod. “And I expect you to be my doctor when it’s time to deliver his heirs,” she added, her grin changing into a smile of embarrassment.

Dr. Regan’s look of shock changed to relief. After another moment, he smiled. “I shall be honored to attend you, my lady.” With that, he took up his black bag, gave her a quick bow, and exited the bedchamber.

Once he was gone, Parma hurried to join her. “My lady, are you ... well?” she asked in almost a whisper, her face going from the linen bandage to Charlotte’s reflection in the mirror.

“I am,” she replied quietly.
I have to be.
“I have responsibilities to see to for the rest of my stay here at Wisborough Oaks,” she announced then, her face brightening. “I’m thinking the sprigged muslin day gown. And let’s do something different with my hair. Nothing elaborate, though. I don’t wish to keep the duke waiting,” she added as she saw Parma’s surprised expression in the mirror.
Something to do.

She truly was looking forward to it.