The Duke's Deceit (8 page)

“Mary, I think you should go.” Lottie’s voice choked with sobs. “It’s the proper thing to do. And I’ll do whatever her ladyship thinks best.”

“Aye, lassie.” Ian spoke at last. “You’re quality, Mary my girl, whether you believe it or not, no matter what that skimble-shanks of a grandfather says.”

“Miss Masterton, as Richard’s doctor I must insist you listen to his wise council.” Dr. McAlister’s head nodded pompously.

“I hesitate to add to the burden of decision, my dear, but I fear I must.” The duchess glided across the room, standing in a way in which her calm gaze could move easily from Mary’s pale face to rest on Richard’s. Her eyes pierced through his façade to his very thoughts, but he threw up a barrier against the bond they shared. There was too much at stake.

“It appears my son needs you with him in London,” she continued, her eyes never leaving his. “So I must join with your family and friends in urging you to accept my offer.”

He sensed the moment that Mary gave in, saw it in the firm lift to her chin, and the way she widened her fawn eyes.

“Then it appears, Your Grace, we are for London.”

London. Tall row houses of whitewash and duncolored stone. Great mansions with highly polished brass door-knockers. Flagstone streets ringing under the wheels of carriers’ wagons, fine coaches, and phaetons. Street peddlers hawking their wares. Everywhere people.

Her mother had described the picturesque bustle time and time again, along with stories of routs and balls and musicales that had made up her world. A world of ladies dressed in fine gowns and jewels, and gentlemen in satin evening coats. It was a foreign world.

A world, her grandfather had correctly stated, that she did not belong to. Not now or ever.

The very thought of what was ahead made her knees turn to pudding. Dropping down in the wing chair, still warm from Richard’s body, Mary buried her face in her hands.

She must go to London with him. And he was a duke! The shock of his true identity trembled along her skin, chilling it, chilling her, until she was certain that a block of ice encased her heart.

And his real fiancée. Mary would have to meet her, face her. After sharing his kiss and his touch. Lady Arabella Hampton. Had Richard held her, kissed her, too? Suddenly the ice block shattered, splintering into thousands of shards, each piercing her. She had to plan—she had to get away.

Richard rested upstairs on the narrow bed in the sewing room, sent there by his anxious doctor. The duchess, accompanied by Dr. McAlister, was safely ensconced at the White Feathers for the night, while Mary prepared for the journey. Ian and Lottie made plans in the kitchen.

She had no choice. She would have to go to London. She was trapped in her web of lies, and there was no escape until Richard either regained his memory and cast her out in revulsion, or was well enough to listen to her abject apology and explanation.

Resigning herself to her fate, she dropped her hands in her lap and shut her eyes, trying to shut out the future.

She only looked up when the door pushed open. Lottie and Ian entered together. Lottie placed a tea tray on the low table in front of the settee and straightened. There was a firm twist to her soft lips.

“Mary, your uncle and I were talking in the kitchen, and we have decided it’s time to set a few things straight.”

Responding to Lottie’s fierce look, Ian nodded. “Aye, lassie. After what that bast—I mean, your grandfather be sayin’, it’s time for you to hear the truth.” Taking a deep breath, her uncle thrust his short beard toward the ceiling. “Mary my girl, Lottie never owned a millinery shop. She was workin’ at the Thistle and Sword as a…” He glanced at Lottie. Obviously encouraged by her bobbing head, he continued. “As a cook.”

“Hardly more than a bar wench, Ian, and you know it!” Lottie corrected sharply, her cheeks bright as flames. But her eyes rested on Mary’s face with a steady determination.

“Mary, my parents were the butler and the housekeeper at one of Lord Ferguson’s lesser estates. But I was too full of myself to stay in the service of a fine family. No, I wanted to better myself. So I ran off to London. I did work in millinery shops, for as you know, I’ve a bit of a touch with flowers. I lost my last position when Madame LaFlore sold the shop. I met your uncle after I’d been at the Thistle and Sword for a year. I fair hated the place.”

Lottie stopped for breath, her face flushed with bright color. The cherry red ribbons at the neck line of her dress unraveled under her worrying fingers.

“So when Ian told me he was coming here to help you and asked me to accompany him, I did,” she rushed on, as if she must spill it all out. “I came with him even though he never made me any promises. If you know what I mean.”

Flushing scarlet from his corded throat to his bushy hairline, Ian whistled through clenched teeth. “Now, Lottie lass, you know I’m not ready to settle down.”

“Uncle Ian, please allow Lottie to continue,” Mary admonished, casting him as hard a glance as she’d ever given. She was appalled at his inability to fully appreciate Lottie’s worth. Really, she’d thought better of him, although she’d never allowed herself to dwell too closely upon Lottie and Ian’s relationship.

“Thank you, Mary.” Lottie sniffed. “I just wanted you to know in case that hateful man ever confronts us again. But I grew up in a great house, and I know what’s proper. I’d be honored to be your companion in London if you still want me.”

“Want you! I
need
you!” Surging to her feet, Mary swept Lottie into a fierce hug.

“Oh, Lottie, I must have you, but can you really bear to leave Uncle Ian behind even for a short while?” She whispered this last into the fat curls over Lottie’s ear.

Firmly gripping Mary’s shoulders, Lottie held her at arm’s length. “Your uncle can fend for himself. From the looks of things he plans to do so forever.” She sniffed as she flicked him a cold little glance.

Chastened, Ian actually shuffled his feet but remained silent.

“Come, Mary, we ladies have much to do to prepare for our journey. Although what proper clothes you have for London could be packed in a small jute bag!”

With a toss of her head Lottie led Mary from the room. There was such earnest determination on Lottie’s face, Mary could almost smile, and her fear receded ever so slightly.

Baron Renfrew stomped into the dining room, spewing curses like a sailor. Sir Robert Lancaster glanced up from the quite excellent lamb his cook had prepared, and enquired amicably, “Baron, what brings you to this godforsaken spot?”

“Your abominable blundering, you fool!” The old man spit out the insult, pounding one fist upon the table so hard that the saucer of mint sauce jumped, spilling its contents out in a sticky green stream.

A man fully used to hiding his true feelings, Sir Robert continued with his dinner.

“I sent you a message that I was working on disassociating Mary from her surprising new attachment.”

“But you didn’t tell me that the man is the Duke of Avalon!”

Even his iron nerves weren’t proof against such a pronouncement. Slowly laying down his knife and fork, he at last gave the old baron his full attention.

“Are you certain?”

“I just spent an hour in the parlor of that cursed hovel with him and his mother, the duchess. She’s come to fetch her precious son home to London. He still has no memory and so refuses to leave Mary behind, thinking she’s his betrothed. Which she ain’t and never has been, for he’s to wed Lady Arabella Hampton. The baggage tricked him for her own ends. Tricked you, by God!”

Sir Robert leaned back in his padded chair and spired his fingers, studying the tips. The sly puss. He could almost admire her resourcefulness, if she hadn’t put such a clog in his plans.

But it was only one more score to settle when he had Mary where he wanted her.

“Well, well, our naive Mary is more astute than I ever believed possible.” Staring up into Renfrew’s scarlet face, it briefly passed through Sir Robert’s thoughts that the old man might have an apoplexy on the spot.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked coolly.

“If you want to keep earning the money I’ve been paying you, you’ll get yourself to London. Fetch her back here! Avalon’s smarter than it’s good for a man to be. If he starts sticking his nose into Mary’s business, I’ll be undone.”

Some secret thing flashed through the baron’s watery blue eyes. Interested, Sir Robert pushed slowly to his feet.

“What a fascinating observation. Pray tell what secrets about a simple chit like Mary could be your undoing, Renfrew?”

“Never you mind!” he barked back. “Just get yourself to London.”

“It will cost you,” Sir Robert drawled, enjoying the skinflint’s discomfort.

Snorting, the baron reached into his brown corded jacket and pulled out a fistful of fifty-pound notes. “This will get you to London. Contact me as soon as you’re settled somewhere. I’ll arrange a voucher on my bank. Just get the chit out of London as soon as you can. I don’t care how you do it!”

He threw the notes on the table, spun on his heels, and stomped out of the room much as he had entered it.

Relishing the feel of so much ready cash at his fingertips, Sir Robert smiled as he arranged the bills in neat piles upon the table cloth. It had been too long since he’d been in London. Too long since he’d lived the way he deserved to live.

He laughed out loud, thinking about enjoying it all at Renfrew’s expense. His stay would be as expensive as he could made it, and as long. For he was more than a little interested in discovering for himself the secret that Renfrew was terrified that the Duke of Avalon might uncover.

Mary gazed fondly at Lottie, whose poke bonnet was tipped over her eyes and had ridden down upon her nose. All that could be seen of her face was her round firm chin and rosebud lips. The duchess remained the perfect lady even in sleep, not a hair out of place, her hands folded properly in her lap.

Out of the corner of her eye Mary glanced at Richard. His head was flung back, a lock of dark wavy hair fell across his brow, and his magnificent eyes were closed. Even he had succumbed to the bruising pace he himself had ordered.

It was frightening to see how quickly the sweeping valleys, the quaint villages, the slate-roofed chapels of the north country gave way to the gentler, rolling hills of the south.

Soon she would be in London. Richard would be reunited with his love, Lady Arabella. That was right and proper. After all, she had wished to find his family, to restore him to their care. Then why did the prospect give her so much pain? She could never have guessed that he was one of the premier lords of the land, that he was engaged to a true lady. All of her daydreams and fancies had to be forgotten in the light of the truth. That thought brought a sick ache to her stomach and forced her gaze back to his face.

She found him studying her from under his hooded gaze. She tried to smile at him but was afraid and her lip trembled. What was it about him that was subtly different now? Was it the knowledge she possessed, or had something changed him? Since that moment in the stable his eyes seemed harder and the twist to his lips more sardonic.

“What are you afraid of, Mary?”

His blunt question, spoken so near to her ear, threw her into confusion. His soft warm breath was a distraction, but she would strive to be as honest as possible.

“I’ve never been far from Hexham. My grandfather is correct, Richard. I don’t belong in your London world.”

“Your grandfather is a miserable reprobate! Good Lord, where is the rest of your family that he can treat you so?” Although the words were full of feeling the glance he settled on her was oddly indifferent.

“I have no one besides my grandfather and Uncle Ian,” she answered briefly, not wishing to burden him with the fear and abandonment she had felt after her parents had died and her grandfather had communicated that he wanted nothing whatsoever to do with her.

He lifted one brow and stared pointedly into her eyes, as if he expected more.

“My grandmother died before I was born,” she explained, driven by his unnerving silence. “She was the only child of Sir Charles Grenshaw. She and her cousin, Charlotte, were the last of their line.”

“Where is this cousin? Couldn’t she have helped you?”

All these questions she herself had wondered about. “My mother told me she married the youngest son of the sixth Lord Fordham and they went to the colonies long ago. My mother lost touch with her before she … she came north with my father.”

She searched his hooded eyes for some sign of what this shift in his manner could mean. There was nothing in them of the man who had insisted he couldn’t go to London without her support. It was hard to believe that only a few days ago she had seen such tenderness in him.

“Richard, what have I done to anger you?”

As close as they sat on the carriage seat, Mary couldn’t miss the slight tightening of his mouth as her shaft hit home.

“Forgive me,” he drawled softly, almost in the voice she’d come to enjoy so. But his small smile didn’t bring any warmth to his eyes. “It must be the fatigue of the journey. Rest, Mary. We’ll be in London soon.”

With that he shut her out, leaning his head back against a green velvet squab and closing his eyes.

She had no choice but to believe him. Just as she’d had no choice but to come on this journey. Despite her misgivings and the miserable guilt that blighted her days, she had come. Because she owed it to him. No matter the cost, she would stay with him for as long as he needed her. She could only hope that her stay in London would be mercifully brief.

The carriage bowled through the streets of London at twilight, clattering over cobblestone streets, past enormous buildings set side by side, twisting and turning until it entered an area of greenery, where the noise of the city was hushed. Set around a square, enclosed by fences, were mansions unlike anything Mary had ever experienced. Certainly, there was the manor house in Hexham, and the squire lived in grandeur there, but it couldn’t compare to even one of these dwellings!

The carriage jolted to a stop in front of a high openwork iron gate under a gas lamp. Within moments, a servant materialized to open the door and place a small step stool for their convenience.

“Where are we?” she whispered into the darkness, expecting the duchess to answer.

“Home.” Richard drawled the word, pride evident on his face as he stepped out of the carriage.

The duchess gave Mary her peculiarly sweet smile, then she too stepped out, assisted by the footman.

Lottie’s eyes were round with wonder. “Never seen such a place. Lord Ferguson’s was half the size,” she muttered quickly. “But never fear, Mary. We’ll do, see if we don’t.” With a defiant tug at her errant bonnet, she alighted.

Summoning all her courage, Mary followed. Immediately Richard clasped her hand and placed it firmly into the curve of his arm. Her tired eyes searched his unreceptive features for some softening, some return to the warmth that she both craved and feared in the same breath. Now that it was gone, she felt cast adrift in this new frightening world. Sudden trepidation made her search the darkness for Lottie’s reassuring presence.

“They’re already inside,” he drawled, sensing her hesitation. “Come along.” He escorted her through the gate toward the Corinthian portico flanked by Venetian windows and crowned with a fan-vaulted door light.

In the soft light spilling through the doorway stood an imposing personage who was unmistakably the butler.

“Welcome home, Your Grace,” he pronounced in such a deep, ponderous voice that Mary blinked up at him in awe.

“Thank you,” Richard answered, drawing Mary into the deep entrance hall, which by itself was larger than the cottage where she’d grown up. The ceiling rose majestically two stories above her head, and beneath her feet the floor gleamed with a cream Italian marble.

Lottie’s mouth was a circle of awe. Mary, too, was overwhelmed, but she refused to give in to fear.

“We are all exhausted.” The duchess smiled, and her eyes, so like Richard’s, glowed with kindness. “I suggest we retire and have our supper brought to us. Tomorrow we will meet for breakfast to decide our course of action.”

Without waiting for comment, she turned and led the way up the wide double staircase. At the landing Richard turned to the right.

“Why yes, Richard, your apartments are in the east wing. Being in the house has sparked a memory…?” There was a certain note in the duchess’s voice that Mary hadn’t heard before. She turned, catching the clash as identical eyes met and sparred.

Richard shrugged. “Perhaps so, madame. We will see what tomorrow will bring.” He sent a perfect bow among the three women. “My apartment is…?” Lifting a brow, he waited.

“It is the third door on the right. Crowley is waiting for you.”

The duchess’s stare was unrelenting and, surprisingly, Richard looked away first.

“My valet, no doubt.” With a flicker of a smile, he turned on his heels and strolled leisurely down the long hall of the east wing.

Without a comment the duchess continued up the stairs. Mary followed her along a wide corridor hung with magnificent landscapes.

“Your room is here, Mary.” She indicated a door on the right. “Miss Barton, you are just across the hall. Rest well; be sure to ring if you need anything. Don’t worry about tomorrow; we shall talk in the morning.”

She returned the way they had come, leaving Lottie and Mary staring at one another.

“I’m frightened out of my wits!” Lottie gasped, grabbing Mary and giving her a fierce hug. “But
you
belong here. And don’t you be forgetting it.” With a great sigh Lottie released her.

Mary didn’t have the heart to argue with Lottie, whose eyelashes were webbed with tears. She knew she didn’t really belong; her grandfather’s words were branded permanently onto her soul.

“Now get yourself to bed, Mary.” Lottie seemed to gather herself together when Mary couldn’t respond. “You look ready to drop. Let me come and help you get settled.”

“Thank you, Lottie, but I know you’re as tired as I am myself. No matter what the others think, you’re here as my friend and not my servant. So please, go to bed yourself.”

It wasn’t that she wouldn’t welcome Lottie, even as a distraction from her own disturbing thoughts, but she needed some time alone to acclimate herself to these strange and grand surroundings.

The bedchamber itself was enormous. She sank into a delicate chair of striped blue and cream, which was set comfortably beside a carved marble fireplace. The cheery fire did much to set her spirits to rights. If only her mother could see her in a room like this. An enormous four-poster bed, festooned with cream-colored brocade hangings, stood on a dais at the far end of the chamber. The cherry furnishings were all graceful and feminine, and were polished to a lustrous finish. The windows were hidden behind thick drapes that muffled sound as well as light. The ceiling was muraled with clouds on a pale blue background.

If she was a bit intimidated, she would only admit that it was her surroundings and not the idea that Richard insisted that she was integral to his recovery.

As promised, a serving maid appeared with a delicious supper of cream spring soup, poached turbot with sides of cucumbers, and tiny green peas. The trifle was delicious but so rich that she laid down her spoon after only a few bites.

The maid quietly went about her chores, tending the fire and turning down the bed, but when she reached for the small portmanteau, Mary sent her away. She could unpack her few possessions easily. Besides, she felt vaguely uneasy that the maid would be scandalized by her lack of finery. She hung her two dresses—an evening gown of pale green sarcenet that she’d cut down from one of her mother’s dresses, and a walking dress of blue cotton dimity—in the wardrobe alongside the identical costume to the one she wore—her serviceable uniform of black and white.

She poured warm water from the pitcher into a blue-and-white porcelain bowl and made her ablutions. Then she pulled the lawn nightgown over her head and crawled slowly into the center of the four-poster. Her body ached with weariness, and her mind was numb, with so many conflicting feelings and emotions that she’d never be able to sleep. She lay there, trying vainly to order her thoughts and find a way out of her own foolish dreams.

Richard might say he needed, nay,
wanted
her with him, but his eyes no longer sent that message. They were cold and remote. They tortured her. And more important, she felt the bonds between them disintegrating.

Unable to sustain the pain of such thoughts, she embraced the drowsiness finally overtaking her, resisting only long enough to remember Richard’s words of encouragement: “We will see what tomorrow will bring.”

Richard awoke to a new day. Strong beams of late morning sunlight slanted through the slits of his draperies to make patterns of light on the Bakshaish carpet.

He stretched and gazed around at the familiar objects that he’d always taken for granted. The heavy dark oak armoir made him smile as he recalled hiding in it once so that he could leap out to terrify his brother and sister, when as children they played at hide-and-seek. The painting of a hunt scene, hung over the black marble fireplace, had been a gift from his mother on his seventeenth birthday. He’d come down from Oxford to discover she’d prepared a birthday celebration. He’d been horrified, for he had been too old and grand for such childish fancies. Now he remembered it with a curl of love warming his chest.

Very cleansing, losing your memory, he decided ruefully. The relief upon its return crystallized down into a deep, abiding understanding of its true importance. He could be almost grateful for the experience, if it wasn’t for Mary.

Mary.

The warm feeling in his chest spiraled wildly through every fiber of his body as he lay contemplating her treachery. His first rush of rage had dissipated, leaving only a thin layer of anger, and yesterday, he’d realized that she sensed it. He was usually much better at hiding his feelings. Bloody hell, he had honed his languid boredom to perfection! He was notorious for his saber-sharp wit and sardonic humor. Why did they, now, not fill the sucking emptiness inside him?

The thought of vengeance wouldn’t do, either. That had been his first inclination when he decided to make Mary play this out. Found out, she was ready to confess all, but like a moth to the flame that would consume it, Richard fed his pain by refusing to listen to her, thereby insuring her stay within his sphere.

He could be honest about himself and his motives, a trait that his mother would no doubt say saved him from being insufferable, but for some reason, this time, the arguments for dragging this bitter charade out to its bloody end were too complex to articulate.

Without question the baron was a bastard—his treatment of his granddaughter verged on the criminal. In fact, there had been a desperation in his attempt to keep her buried in the wild that inspired further study.

He did not delude himself that he’d brought Mary here under false pretenses so that she could take her rightful place in the
ton
. Mary was here so that he could dissect her feelings as skillfully as she had manipulated his.

And she was here to help him untangle himself from a future marriage that would make both Arabella and himself utterly miserable. He could see that this end would take more than a little manipulation.

He flung himself out of bed and went to the wide desk between the windows. He penned two notes: one to his betrothed and the other to Lord Frederick Charlesworth. It was time to start displaying vague memories of certain events and people.

By way of Crowley, he sent apologies that he would not be at breakfast. Crowley reported back that all the ladies had also had trays in their rooms.