The Lost Duke of Wyndham (23 page)

“Well?” the dowager demanded.

“Nothing,” Grace chirped.

The dowager regarded her with a most unpleasant expression, then turned her icy attentions to Amelia. “And
you
, Lady Amelia. Where is your breeding?”

And then Amelia—oh, dear heavens—she shrugged her shoulders and said, “Damned if I know.”

Grace tried to hold still, but her shock positively burst out of her, and she rather feared she spat upon
the dowager. Which did seem ironic, that the first time she did such a thing, it should be accidental.

“You are disgusting,” the dowager hissed. “I cannot believe I considered forgiving you.”

“Stop picking on Grace,” Amelia said. With surprising force.

Grace turned to Amelia in surprise.

The dowager, however, was furious. “I
beg
your pardon.”

“I said, stop picking on Grace.”

“And who do you think you are, to order me about?”

As Grace watched Amelia, she would have sworn she changed right before her very eyes. Gone was the unsure girl, in her place was: “The future Duchess of Wyndham, or so I'm told.”

Grace's lips parted in shock. And admiration.

“Because really,” Amelia added disdainfully, “if I'm not, what the devil am I doing here, halfway across Ireland?”

Grace's eyes darted from Amelia to the dowager and back. And then back again. And then—

Well, suffice it to say, it was a monstrously long moment of silence.

“Do not speak again,” the dowager finally said. “I cannot tolerate the sound of your voices.”

And indeed, they all remained silent for the rest of the journey. Even the dowager.

O
utside the carriage, the atmosphere was considerably less tense. The three men remained on horseback, never quite in a line. Every now and then one of them would increase his pace or fall behind, and one horse would pass another. Perfunctory greetings would be exchanged.

Occasionally someone would comment on the weather.

Lord Crowland seemed rather interested in the native birds.

Thomas didn't say much, but—Jack glanced over at him—good Lord, was he whistling?

“Are you
happy
?” Jack asked, his voice a bit short.

Thomas looked back in surprise. “Me?” He frowned, thinking about it. “I suppose I am. It's a rather fine day, don't you think?”

“A fine day,” Jack echoed.

“None of us is trapped in the carriage with that evil old hag,” Crowland announced. “We should all be happy.” Then he added, “Pardon,” since the evil old hag was, after all, grandmother to both of his companions.

“Pardons unnecessary on my account,” Thomas said. “I agree with your assessment completely.”

There had to be something significant in this, Jack thought—that their conversation kept returning to how relieved they all were not to be in the dowager's presence. It was damned strange, to tell the truth, and yet, it did make one think…

“Will I have to live with her?” he blurted out.

Thomas looked over and grinned. “The Outer Hebrides, my man, the Outer Hebrides.”

“Why didn't you do it?” Jack demanded.

“Oh, believe me, I will, on the off chance I still possess any power over her tomorrow. And if I don't…” Thomas shrugged. “I'll need some sort of employment, won't I? I always wished to travel. Perhaps I shall be your scout. I'll find the oldest, coldest place on the island. I shall have a rollicking good time.”

“For God's sake,” Jack swore. “Stop talking like that.” He did not want this to be preordained. He did not want it to be understood. Thomas ought to be fighting for his place in the world, not blithely handing it over.

Because he himself did not want it. He wanted Grace, and he wanted his freedom, and more than anything, right at that very moment, he wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Thomas gave him a curious look but said nothing
more. And neither did Jack. Not when they reached Pollamore, or Cavan town, or even as they rode into Butlersbridge.

Night had long since fallen, but Jack knew every storefront, every last signpost and tree. There was the Derragarra Inn, where he'd got himself drunk on his seventeenth birthday. There was the butcher, and the blacksmith, and ah, yes, there was the oatmeal mill, behind which he'd stolen his first kiss.

Which meant that in five—no, make that four—more minutes, he would be home.

Home.

It was a word he had not uttered in years. It had had no meaning. He'd lived in inns and public houses and sometimes under the stars. He'd had his ragtag group of friends, but they drifted in and out of togetherness. They thieved together more by convenience than anything else. All they'd had in common was a shared past in the military, and a willingness to give a portion of their bounty to those who had returned from the war less fortunate than they.

Over the years, Jack had given money to men without legs, women without husbands, children without parents. No one ever questioned where he'd got the money. He supposed his bearing and accent were those of a gentleman, and that was enough. People saw what they wanted to see, and when a former officer (who never quite got around to sharing his name) came bearing gifts…

No one ever
wanted
to question it.

And through all this, he'd told no one. Who had there been to tell?

Grace
.

Now there was Grace.

He smiled. She would approve. Perhaps not of the means, but certainly of the end. The truth was, he'd never taken anything from anyone who hadn't looked as if they could afford it. And he'd always been careful to more thoroughly rob the most annoying of his victims.

Such scruples would not have kept him from the gallows, but it had always made him feel a bit better about his chosen profession.

He heard a horse draw up next to his, and when he turned, there was Thomas, now keeping pace beside him. “Is this the road?” he asked quietly.

Jack nodded. “Just around the bend.”

“They are not expecting you, are they?”

“No.”

Thomas had far too much tact to question him further, and indeed, he allowed his mount to fall back by half a length, granting Jack his privacy.

And then there it was. Cloverhill. Just as he'd remembered it, except maybe the vines had taken over a bit more of the brick facade. The rooms were lit, and the windows shone with warmth. And even though the only sounds were those made by the traveling party, Jack could swear he could hear laughter and merriment seeping out through the walls.

Dear God, he'd thought he'd missed it, but this…

This was something more. This was an ache, a true, pounding pain in his chest; an empty hole; a sob, forever caught in his throat.

This was home.

Jack wanted to stop, to take a moment to gaze at the graceful old house, but he heard the carriage drawing closer and knew that he could not keep everyone at bay while he indulged his own nostalgia.

The last thing he wanted was for the dowager to barge in ahead of him (which he was quite certain she would do), so he rode up to the entrance, dismounted, and walked up the steps on his own. He closed his eyes and drew a long breath, and then, since he wasn't likely to amass any more courage in the next few minutes, he lifted the brass knocker and brought it down.

There was no immediate reply. This was not a surprise. It was late. They were unexpected. The butler might have retired for the night. There were so many reasons they should have got rooms in the village and made their way to Cloverhill in the morning. He didn't want—

The door opened. Jack held his hands tightly behind his back. He'd tried leaving them at his sides, but they started to shake.

He saw the light of the candle first, and then the man behind it, wrinkled and stooped.

“Master Jack?”

Jack swallowed. “Wimpole,” he said. Good heavens, the old butler must be nearing eighty, but of course his aunt would have kept him on, for as long as he wished to work, which, knowing Wimpole, would be until the day he died.

“We were not expecting you,” Wimpole said.

Jack tried for a smile. “Well, you know how I like a surprise.”

“Come in! Come in! Oh, Master Jack, Mrs. Audley
will be so
pleased
to see you. As will—” Wimpole stopped, peering out the door, his wizened old eyes creasing into a squint.

“I am afraid that I brought a few guests,” Jack explained. The dowager had already been helped down from the carriage, and Grace and Amelia were right behind her. Thomas had grabbed onto his grandmother's arm—hard, from the looks of it—to give Jack a few moments alone, but the dowager was already showing signs of impending outrage.

“Wimpole?” came a feminine voice. “Who is here at this hour?”

Jack stood stiffly, hardly able to breathe. It was his aunt Mary. She sounded exactly the same. It was as if he'd never left…

Except it wasn't. If he'd never left, his heart wouldn't be pounding, his mouth wouldn't be dry. And most of all, he wouldn't feel so bloody terrified. Scared spitless at seeing the one person who had loved him his entire life, with her whole heart and without condition.

“Wimpole? I—” She'd rounded the corner and was staring at him like a ghost. “Jack?”

“In the flesh.” He tried for a jovial tone but couldn't quite manage it, and deep inside, down where he kept his blackest moments, he wanted to cry. Right there, in front of everyone, it was twisting and writhing inside of him, bursting to get out.

“Jack!” she cried out, and she hurled herself forward, throwing her arms around him. “Oh, Jack. Jack, my dear sweet boy. We've missed you so.” She was covering his face with kisses, like a mother would her son.

Like she should have been able to do for Arthur.

“It is good to see you, Aunt Mary,” he said. He pulled her tight then and buried his face in the crook of her neck, because she
was
his mother, in every way that mattered. And he'd missed her. By God, he'd missed her, and in that moment it did not matter that he'd hurt her in the worst way imaginable. He just wanted to be held.

“Oh, Jack,” she said, smiling through her tears, “I ought to horsewhip you for staying away so long. Why would you do such a thing? Don't you know how worried we were? How—”

“Ahem.”

Mary stopped and turned, still holding Jack's face in her hands. The dowager had made her way to the front entrance and was standing behind him on the stone steps.

“You must be the aunt,” she said.

Mary just stared at her. “Yes,” she finally replied. “And you are…?”

“Aunt Mary,” Jack said hastily, before the dowager could speak again, “I am afraid I must introduce you to the dowager Duchess of Wyndham.”

Mary let go of him and curtsied, stepping aside as the dowager swept past her. “The
Duchess
of Wyndham?” she echoed, looking at Jack with palpable shock. “Good heavens, Jack, couldn't you have sent notice?”

Jack smiled tightly. “It is better this way, I assure you.”

The rest of the traveling party came forward at that moment, and Jack completed the introductions, trying not to notice his aunt going from paler to palest after
he identified the Duke of Wyndham and the Earl of Crowland.

“Jack,” she whispered frantically, “I haven't the rooms. We have nothing grand enough—”

“Please, Mrs. Audley,” Thomas said with a deferential bow, “do not put yourself out on my accord. It was unforgivable for us to arrive without notice. I would not expect you to go to any great lengths. Although”—he glanced over at the dowager, who was standing in the hall with a sour look on her face—“perhaps your finest room for my grandmother. It will be easier for everyone.”

“Of course,” Mary said quickly. “Please, please, it's chilly. You must all come inside. Jack, I do need to tell you—”

“Where is your church?” the dowager demanded.

“Our church?” Mary asked, looking to Jack in confusion. “At this hour?”

“I do not intend to worship,” the dowager snapped. “I wish to inspect the records.”

“Does Vicar Beveridge still preside?” Jack asked, trying to cut the dowager off.

“Yes, but he will surely be abed. It's half nine, I should think, and he is an early riser. Perhaps in the morning. I—”

“This is a matter of dynastic importance,” the dowager cut in. “I don't care if it's after midnight. We—”

“I care,” Jack cut in, silencing her with an icy expression. “You are not going to pull the vicar out of bed. You have waited this long. You can bloody well wait until morning.”

“Jack!” Mary gasped. She turned to the dowager. “I did not raise him to speak this way.”

“No, you didn't,” Jack said, which was the closest he was going to come to an apology while the dowager was staring him down.

“You were his mother's sister, weren't you?” the dowager said.

Mary looked a bit baffled at the sudden change of topic. “I am.”

“Were you present at her wedding?”

“I was not.”

Jack turned to her in surprise. “You weren't?”

“No. I could not attend. I was in confinement.” She gave Jack a rueful look. “I never told you. It was a stillbirth.” Her face softened. “Just one of the reasons I was so happy to have
you
.”

“We shall make for the church in the morning,” the dowager announced, uninterested in Mary's obstetrical history. “First thing. We shall find the papers and be done with it.”

“The papers?” Mary echoed.

“Proof of the marriage,” the dowager bit off. She looked upon Mary with icy condescension, then dismissed her with a flick of her head, adding, “Are you daft?”

It was a good thing Thomas pulled her back, because Jack would have gone for her throat.

“Louise was not married in the Butlersbridge church,” Mary said. “She was married at Maguiresbridge. In County Fermanagh, where we grew up.”

“How far is that?” the dowager demanded, trying to yank her arm free of Thomas's grasp.

“Twenty miles, your grace.”

The dowager muttered something quite unpleasant. Jack could not make out the exact words, but Mary blanched. She turned to him with an expression nearing alarm. “Jack? What is this all about? Why do you need proof of your mother's marriage?”

He looked at Grace, who was standing a bit behind his aunt. She offered him a tiny nod of encouragement, and he cleared his throat and said, “My father was her son.”

Mary looked over at the dowager in shock. “Your father…John Cavendish, you mean…”

Thomas stepped forward. “May I intercede?”

Jack felt exhausted. “Please do.”

“Mrs. Audley,” Thomas said, with more dignity and collection than Jack could ever have imagined, “if there is proof of your sister's marriage, then your nephew is the true Duke of Wyndham.”

“The true Duke of—” Mary covered her mouth in shock. “No. It's not possible. I remember him. Mr. Cavendish. He was—” She waved her arms in the air as if trying to describe him with gestures. Finally, after several attempts at a more verbal explanation, she said, “He would not have kept such a thing from us.”

“He was not the heir at the time,” Thomas told her, “and had no reason to believe he would become so.”

“Oh, my heavens. But if Jack is the duke, then you—”

“Are not,” he finished wryly. “I am sure you can imagine our eagerness to have this settled.”