Heartless (8 page)

This was the room she retreated to when the odds of her circumstances threatened to overwhelm her. This was where she went when she needed to think, or not think at all. And this was where she went when thoughts of her husband threatened to overwhelm her.

She’d tried to immerse herself into Folkestone Society but Folkestone Society refused to accept her. She assumed they’d somehow heard of her illegitimacy. She had no way of knowing that her husband had managed to alienate local Society the same way he’d alienated high Society. They didn’t believe she was really his wife. But there was no way she could know that.

Instead of trying to gain that which she’d never had—a place in Society—she instead focused on establishing relationships with each and every one of her husband’s servants, old and new. Her first conquest was Liza.

Liza had always wanted to be a lady’s maid, she confided to her mistress. After a brief discussion with Mrs. Stark, Leandra promoted her to the post, confident the girl would prove her worth. It was through Liza that the new duchess learned of the other servants and of others who needed work. Leandra felt no compunctions about hiring additional help and saw no reason to inform her husband of any changes she made. It was due to her that he had his inheritance so it was only fair she decide how to spend that money. She had no idea how to contact him, so seeking his permission was moot.

Righteous indignation wore off rather quickly, especially when the object of one’s wrath was not present to witness it. Leandra settled into a routine, thoughts of Lord Derringer little more than an uncomfortable reminder of her lack of style.

Liza replaced her mistress’s wardrobe with all the frills and stylish garments Leandra could ever wish for. Or her husband could wish for, rather. For Leandra, despite having been raised in a home where the latest London fashions were regularly bestowed upon the daughters of the house, fashion had never been an interest for her. She was content to wear clothes that covered her, allowed her to move, and didn’t require much forethought.

Returning her gaze to the bluebird previously forming beneath her fingers, Leandra smiled at the memory. Liza’s excitement had known no bounds.

Leandra was sure the local gossips were positively agog with all the castle activity. Besides the summoning of the local seamstress, milliner, and staymaker, outdoor servants were hired in droves, any man, woman, or child who desired employment. Within the few weeks of her husband’s absence, Leandra transformed the castle grounds. She turned no one away, finding something for each person to do, even those whose physical limitations made labor difficult. It was no surprise to her when those from further off began arriving, all pitiful, all desperate, and all seeking help. Leandra remembered her own brief moment of desperation, those hours after her brother and stepmother threw her into the streets, and was unable to turn any of them away.

Adding to the indoor staff meant she could fix all the misnamed salons that dominated her new home. Whoever heard of making the Blue Salon gold and orange or the Green Salon crimson? The resultant confusion probably entertained the duke to no end. As Leandra inspected every room in the vast castle, she made notes of what to change and what could stay. Upon entering the Egyptian Salon, she immediately turned around and never entered it again. How she despised that particular affectation! 

Leandra soon found herself at loose ends but that didn’t last long. She’d given up on winning over the townspeople, settling for the good opinion of the estate farmers instead. When several learned a master of sorts was in residence, they swooped in on her with complaints, demands, and requests ranging from new farm equipment to new houses.

One man even requested a wife. The little scullery maid shyly volunteered for that particular post and Leandra was satisfied to note that the man was only too delighted with the pretty girl. That was the easiest problem she had come up against to date.

Leandra tried to handle every tenant’s problem to the best of her ability and limited experience but she felt at a distinct disadvantage and wished that her husband were there to relieve her of some of the responsibility. At times, when things were particularly hectic, she felt a surge of anger at the man who had given her his name and then so insensitively abandoned her to fend for herself in a social station of which she knew nothing, among complete strangers who made their distrust and antipathy apparent.

Hence, her relief was immense when Derringer’s secretary arrived to lend support and knowledge where necessary. She was so grateful for his timely arrival that she failed to realize that her husband had sent the man specifically to help her. Had she thought about it, she would have been touched by the duke’s unusual show of concern.

Now, nearly two weeks after her husband’s departure, Leandra sat in the morning room and stared through the window. She wore one of her new gowns, a charming creation of white sprigged muslin with cherry red ribbons at the high waist and along the hem and tiny puffed sleeves. A matching cherry ribbon was threaded through her curls, which were arranged into a loose chignon, a few wayward tendrils escaping to frame her face. She wore no jewelry since she had none, but Liza had taken a length of the leftover ribbon and tied it around Leandra’s slender throat. Her feet were shod in delicate slippers of white silk embroidered with tiny red roses. She wondered if her appearance would be pleasing to her husband.

His birthday had passed, the All Hallows Eve celebration had passed, and still she received no word from him. She hoped he was well.

She’d spent the past three days with Mrs. Stark learning all she could about her husband and trying to understand why he was… well, the way he was. Every new piece of information was surprising, shocking, depressing, or so completely unbelievable that Leandra wondered if she had fallen into a Gothic novel. She listened in awe to the housekeeper’s stories as the woman went about her duties.

“Master Hart was only six when his mama died, God rest her soul,” Mrs. Stark began. “The poor lad had no sooner stopped mourning his mother than his father passed on as well. He was a duke then and his uncle moved right in and tried to be the duke himself. No, Alice, not there. Here. Where was I? Oh, yes, Master Hart’s uncle. He wasn’t so bad as his wife, let me tell you. She was a greedy shrew. She made the young master’s life miserable.”

Mrs. Stark paused to show little Mary, the new scullery maid, what she was doing wrong. Leandra was pleased to note that the housekeeper was more of a mother to her underlings than a stern taskmaster. In the new duchess’s opinion, a happy and well-contented worker was a more efficient worker.

“So his grace was forced into the role early in life,” Leandra murmured. “How terrible for him. How did his mother die?”

The housekeeper’s lips pinched in at the corners, her eyes darting away from Leandra’s. “I reckon that would be for the master to tell, your grace.”

Leandra let it drop but placed it in the back of her mind to ask her husband when he returned. “How did his father die?” she asked instead.

“That was a strange thing, if you ask me,” the older woman replied, head shaking as her brows drew down into a V. She handed a bucket and brush to Hannah, one of the upstairs maids, then stood there and silently stared at her feet for a few moments before finally raising her eyes to meet Leandra’s hazel gaze. “He died in a boating accident, they do say, but I have my doubts.”

“Are you saying it wasn’t an accident, Mrs. Stark?”

The housekeeper glanced around uneasily. “Perhaps we should continue this in private, your grace. I wouldn’t want to frighten any of the maids with my opinions.”

“Very well,” Leandra acquiesced. “Will you take tea with me?”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that, your grace!” the woman exclaimed, one hand flying to her ample bosom in melodramatic shock.

“Whyever not?”

“Well, it just ain’t done, your grace.”

Leandra gave her a sympathetic look. “Have you noticed any of my actions these past two weeks as things that are ‘done’ by duchesses, Mrs. Stark?”

The housekeeper smiled reluctantly at that. “No, your grace. I would be honored if you would take tea with me in my sitting room,” she offered. “There is less chance of interruption there.”

“So be it,” the duchess smiled.

6

What she had so recently learned about her husband left Leandra feeling distressed, helpless. She hated that feeling.

She had finally, somehow, gotten Mrs. Stark to divulge the huge secret about Hart’s mama’s death—Leandra had begun to think of him as Hart without even realizing it. The late duchess had been found on the second floor landing, her neck broken. It was the night footman who found her, according to Mrs. Stark, but Hart had been an odd little boy ever since then. He refused to speak and when his father had favored him with any sort of attention, Hart did everything in his power to hide until his papa lost interest.

Mrs. Stark told her the little duke uttered not a word until his father’s body was brought in to lie in state in one of the spare family bedchambers. Then he was suddenly a happy child who asked all sorts of questions and demanded attention from the Starks and several of the other servants.

Until his uncle showed up with his wife and children in tow. Hart’s uncle took over Derringer Crescent as if he were the duke and not the seven-year-old boy with the sad dark eyes. His aunt was a shrew with pretensions above her station. She believed her husband should be the duke and took every opportunity to let the little duke know it, too.

The staff had taken to protecting the tiny peer after one of the grooms reported to Stark that the lad’s saddle cinch had been cut and it was only a coincidence that a stablehand had caught it before saddling Hart’s pony.

The older of Hart’s cousins, Martin, now acted as his secretary. It was this man that Stark announced at that moment, jolting Leandra from her reverie.

She looked up with a wary smile and studied the handsome man. With his waves of golden hair and great blue eyes, he was the exact opposite of her husband. His pale skin and the meek expression on his pleasing countenance furthered the contrast. He smiled hesitantly and bowed.

“You are my husband’s cousin?” she murmured, a slight disbelief coloring her words.

“Yes, your grace.” His voice was as pleasing as his appearance, soft and gentle with a slight huskiness.

Leandra set aside her needlework. She stood and moved across the room, holding out her hand when she neared. “I am Leandra. Please call me Merri since we are related now,” she offered with a charming smile.

The man smiled back and took her hand. “I am Martin, Hart’s secretary, at your service. Merri.” He studied her for a moment and then flushed when he realized that he still held her hand. “I apologize,” he murmured in embarrassment. “I was wondering…may I ask you something that may be considered impertinent?”

“Certainly.” The duchess clasped her hands in front of her and waited.

“Why do you ask me to call you Merri?”

The question was so different from what she had been expecting that she laughed. “Is that all? Well, my second name, Cousin Martin, is Merrily, like happy. I prefer to be called Merri. It was what my father called me.”

“Who was your father?”

This was the line of questioning she had been expecting. Leandra gestured to the seat across from her own and then sat down. Martin followed suit and waited for her answer with slightly raised brows.