The Wyndham Legacy (6 page)

Marcus grunted. “Your voice is better than the song, Spears. At least it rhymes. Napoleon gave us thirty days when?”

“To leave Berlin, my lord. Schwarzenberg had commanded Bernadotte to protect the city, but as you know, Bernadotte gave orders to abandon Berlin and would have if his subordinate Bulow hadn't talked him out of it.”

“Ah, but it isn't all that accurate, Spears. There was nothing about thirty or thirty-one days. Well, perhaps there were a few jests about it, but it wasn't a fact.”

“It is lyrical license, my lord, surely the prerogative of a ditty writer. I understand this ditty writer is quite the popular man in the army ranks. The men are singing his little trifles as they march along.”

Marcus was smiling, finding himself singing the silly little song when Sampson opened the great doors to Chase Park and bowed him inside. Marcus was at last used to the deference and the endless services heaped upon him by his
staff. He thanked Sampson, as was his wont, and said, “I suppose Crittaker is awaiting me in the estate room, a woeful look on his hangdog's face and a pile of papers for me to review.”

“Yes, my lord, I believe that is quite accurate a description. I heard him shout some twenty minutes ago, shortly after I delivered your lordship's mail to him. I immediately went into the estate room with the repellent thought that he had succumbed to an apolaustic outburst, which, I might add, would have been vastly inappropriate, but he hadn't. It is evidently a missive of grave importance, my lord, and he had inadvertently, in his shock and surprise, given verbal vent to his, er, feelings.”

“What the devil does apolaustic mean?”

“It refers to the giving of enjoyment or pleasure. It is an act of self-indulgence, my lord, something to be avoided unless one is lucky enough to so indulge.”

“You're quite right, Sampson, I should have boxed his ears had he done it in my presence.”

“Rightfully so, my lord.”

Marcus, now thoroughly intrigued, didn't change, but rather strode directly to his estate room, flung open the door and said, “Tell me, Crittaker, with no tumult or stewing, exactly what news made you vent your, er, feelings.”

Mr. Crittaker said nothing, merely handed Marcus a single sheet of paper.

Marcus read and read again, sucked in his breath and said, “My God! This is quite beyond anything I could ever have imagined. Do feel free to indulge in another fit of apolaustic behavior, Crittaker.”

“Apolaustic, my lord?”

“You heard me, man. Surely you know the meaning of apolaustic. You are my secretary, after all, and it's your duty to be up on all meanings of all words I may use.”

Crittaker was silent as the clock on the mantel, broken now for over seventy-five years. He looked to be in agony.

“It appears that the Duchess will be coming to us shortly,” Marcus said, looking through the narrow windows that gave onto the winter-barren east lawn. “That is, she will be coming to us for at least a short time. She doesn't say that she will remain. Though she will remain, if she isn't completely stupid. I suppose I will see to it that she does remain. She is a woman. I am a man. She will obey me for I am the earl and her cousin and it is her duty to do as I tell her.”

“Mr. Spears believes it will be a close call, my lord.”

Marcus rolled his eyes. It seemed that his butler, his secretary, and his valet had formed a coalition. “The Duchess is proud, I agree, but she isn't stupid, at least I trust not, in this particular instance.”

“Spears said that pride many times exonerates a greater stupidity than a blank brain.”

Marcus carefully folded the letter, slipped it into his pocket, and took himself upstairs to change his clothes. Well, Duchess, he thought to himself, at last you will have to come to me. It wasn't until later that he reread the letter once more and focused on the final sentence. “Mr. Wicks wishes to see you on Thursday following my arrival. You doubtless already know this.”

What the devil did his uncle's London solicitor want? Was there more afoot than he knew? But what?

 

She arrived at Chase Park one week before Christmas. The deadline had been the first of January 1814, but she had decided to have it over and done with. Badger stood beside her on the great front steps holding one small valise for her, and she was in the process of lifting her gloved hand to knock on the evil-looking lion's head knocker that had quite terrified her as a child, but of course, she'd never let on that it had.

Before her hand descended the door was opened and she was faced with a beaming Sampson.

“Miss Duchess! Ah, Lady Duchess! What a pleasure, a wonderful event, do come in, yes, do come in. Who is this person?”

“This is Badger. He is my—valet.”

“Ah, well, no matter, doubtless his lordship will sort out everything to your satisfaction. He is awaiting you in his library. Do come with me, Lady Duchess. Your, er, valet—”

“My name is Erasmus Badger, sir.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Badger, I will take you upstairs myself to introduce you to Mr. Spears, his lordship's valet. Perhaps the three of us can come together later and discuss, er, things.”

Badger looked at the Duchess, but she merely smiled that cool, aloof smile of hers. “Go along with Sampson. His lordship can't very well slit my throat in his library.”

She walked quietly into the huge intimidating room. Marcus stood behind his desk. He didn't move when he saw her standing in the doorway, merely said, “You came.”

She nodded. “I had to. I wrote you that.”

“Yes, to be a Wyndham of Wyndham, you had to show your face here before January 1, 1814. But that makes no sense. You are either legitimate or you're not. You are not without sense, Duchess. There is more, isn't there?”

She wouldn't tell him the rest of it, tell him the real reason she was here. She couldn't serve him such a blow. She would let Mr. Wicks do it. She simply raised her chin, saying nothing.

Marcus grunted, threw down the sheaf of papers in his right hand, and came around the massive desk. “Congratulations on the marriage of your father and your mother.”

“Thank you. I only wish I had known, just a clue, perhaps before—”

“Well, now you do and you're home where you belong. It's nearly Christmas. I plan to take the Twins and Spears out to cut a Yule log for the drawing room. Would you care to accompany us?”

He saw, perhaps for the first time since he'd known her, a leap of something very excited in her blue eyes, then it was gone, and she was nodding coolly, saying, “Thank
you, Marcus. You are very kind. I apologize for being here, in advance, truly, I'm sorry if my now being legitimate is distressful to you.”

He said, his voice harsh, “Nonsense, Chase Park is now your home, just as it is mine. If you hadn't been such a stubborn twit, you would have been living here for the past six months instead of—” He broke off, shook his head, then, as if he couldn't help himself, he said, “How did you earn money to keep that damned snug little cottage? And what about that very nice crystal?”

“When would you like to cut that Yule log?”

“In an hour,” he said, looking at her white neck, his fingers clenching and unclenching. This gown was stylish, a pale cream muslin, the neckline not to her chin, but lower, just giving a hint of her bosom, which looked quite enticing to him. “Dress warmly and wear stout boots. Do you have warm clothes and stout boots?”

“No, I fancy I will have to wear only my shift and a pair of slippers. I have sufficient clothing, Marcus. Don't worry. You aren't my guardian. Also, I pray you won't forget that you have only five years on me. In short, cousin Marcus, we are both quite young and indeed, too young to beset each other.”

“What the hell does that mean? You're still eighteen. I will very likely be appointed your guardian—despite my meager number of years—so I advise you, Duchess, not to raise the level of my ire any further.”

“Your ire, Marcus, is of no concern to me. I'm here because I must be here. There is nothing more to it. And I now am nineteen.”

“And will you deign to remain?”

She gave him a small smile, an infuriating small smile, turned, and left the library. She didn't close the door. He heard Mrs. Emory saying with surely too-great exuberance, “Hello, Duchess, and welcome! Oh, excuse me, miss, it's Lady Duchess now. Let me take you to your room. The
earl has assigned you the Princess Mary Chamber, and very lovely it is, you remember, of course.”

“Of course,” the Duchess said. “I remember it quite well. It is kind of his lordship to select such a superior accommodation for me.”

T
HERE WAS SOMETHING
to be said for a Christmas at home in the bosom of one's family, Marcus thought, as he sipped the warm nutmeg-tart mulled wine, felt the heat from the burning Yule log upon his face. He turned then to look at his assembled family. His last Christmas had been spent around a campfire with fifty of his men, shivering in the Galician hills, wondering if the new year would bring them into battle and into death.

He realized that he hadn't bought a gift for the Duchess, not that she deserved it. Well, he had time, still five days until Christmas. Tomorrow, his uncle's solicitor from London would arrive. He frowned, wondering what else his uncle could have done. Legitimizing the Duchess was a fine thing, he had no argument with that, though he realized quickly that Aunt Gweneth now looked at her a good deal differently. He couldn't imagine why she would disapprove of the newly bona fide lady and approve of the bastard. Odd, that.

Aunt Gweneth said, “Duchess, Marcus told us that you were living in Smarden, in Pipwell Cottage, with a man. Really, my dear, such a thing is most peculiar and leaves your reputation open to slurs, given your unfortunate antecedents.”

The Duchess smiled a very small but pleasant smile, those long narrow hands of hers quiet in her lap. “I have never believed my antecedents to be unfortunate, ma'am, merely difficult in this tender society.”

“Nonetheless, you have had a man living with you.”

“Yes, his name is Badger, and he was my butler and my chef. He's a remarkable man. Actually he still is my, er, valet.”

“Still, it is not at all what one would expect from a lady,” Aunt Gweneth said, but Marcus, horrified at how prissy and prudish she sounded, and realizing that he must have sounded exactly the same way, interrupted swiftly, saying, “It makes no more difference, Aunt. The Duchess is here now. Nothing more need be said about it.”

“But that man accompanied her here.”

“Yes,” the Duchess said calmly, then remained quiet, sipping at her mulled wine. “Perhaps Cook should speak to Badger, for his mulled wine is the best I have ever tasted. He has secret ingredients he won't tell anyone about. I remember my mother used to plead with him, telling him that she could sell the recipe and make us all rich. He laughed and nodded, but refused to tell her.”

“I can vouch for Badger's culinary expertise, Aunt Gweneth.”

“Dear Marcus, the man lived with the mother and then with the daughter. He speaks the most beautiful English. Surely you cannot allow a man with such pretensions to influence the household. Why he apes his betters, and it isn't the done thing, Marcus. And she says he's still her valet? Her
valet?
That is utterly preposterous, unbelievable, and you, as the head of the family, surely can't allow it to continue. I don't want to see the Wyndham name swimming into any more disrepute than it already swims.”

A very dark eyebrow went up a good inch. “Our name is in disrepute? Why is this? Perhaps you believe, ma'am, that I am the cause of this so-called disrepute since I am merely the son of the second son?”

“Don't be a nodcock, boy, it doesn't suit you. No, certainly not. The disrepute we are currently experiencing is the Duchess's being made legitimate. Add a man valeting a girl and the result is obvious to predict.”

“Ah, well, Aunt,” Marcus said, “I beg you to think, rather, that my uncle and the Duchess's father, came to see what was right and did it. As for this valeting business—”

The Duchess interrupted him in an unruffled, utterly serene voice. “It is done, dear ma'am, and I fear there is no going back now. I trust the disrepute will die down in time. But this does disturb me. Do you honestly believe Badger's excellent English to be pernicious?”

“No, she doesn't,” Marcus said, giving Aunt Gweneth a look that shut her mouth quickly. “Particularly when Spears rivals him in elocution and delivery.”

“Marcus, that is all well and good, but you cannot allow him to remain here as her valet.”

“Valet,” Antonia said, lifting her head from her current novel, a hideously ill-written story of a constantly weeping Medieval heroine and a hero who cleaved everyone he met in half with his magic sword. “He is your valet, Duchess? How very interesting. Does he arrange your hair? Does he draw your bath? Will you introduce him to me tomorrow?”

“If you like, Antonia.”

“Badger will remain,” Marcus said firmly. “In exactly what capacity I have yet to determine.”

“I believe,” the Duchess said quietly, “that it will be up to me to determine Badger's position.”

“Hardly,” Marcus said. “You may now live here at Chase Park, but you are not the master. Directing many servants on a vast estate is quite different from directing one servant in a cottage. However, I will discuss it with you, as well as with Badger. Incidentally, Duchess, I am pleased you came to reason and are now making Chase Park your home. Do you care to tell me why you changed your mind?”

The Duchess evidently didn't care to tell him anything. Her expression didn't change. Her white hands remained utterly still in her lap. Then she raised one hand to set
her mulled wine on the low table beside her. She was so bloody graceful, he thought, watching her. Every movement she made was smooth and elegant. He suddenly saw her in his mind's eye on her knees, bent over, gardening, the smudges of dirt on her face, tendrils of hair on her damp forehead. She'd still looked utterly composed and lovely. It was always the same with her. He wondered then if she felt anything deeply, if she ever shouted or cried or sulked, or if the elegant serenity, the utter calm, was all there was to her, that it was her in fact.

Fanny looked longingly at a tray of lemon-seed cakes, caught Aunt Gweneth's frown, and turned miserably away.

The Duchess said, “Would you like an apple, Fanny? They're quite delicious. I just finished one myself.”

Fanny shrugged, then caught the apple Marcus tossed to her. She rubbed it on her sleeve, earning her a disapproving look from Aunt Gweneth. Marcus smiled at the Duchess, but she didn't regard him.

“The hour grows late,” Aunt Gweneth said some minutes later. “I think it is time for you girls to go to bed.”

“All right,” Antonia said, closed her book and yawned deeply. She said to the Duchess, “You're our half-sister. Marcus told us all about it. You're no longer our cousin from Holland.”

“That's right. After your dear mother died, our father married my mother. He made me legitimate.”

“You were a bastard,” Fanny said, no guile showing on her face or sounding in her voice. “How very odd. I remember Antonia and I used to argue whether you were from Italy or Holland. It was difficult because we had never heard you speak either language.”

“Yes, I was a bastard, until last May to be exact.”

“Really, my dear, you needn't blare it so loudly,” Aunt Gweneth said. “It would make people believe that you weren't ashamed of your unfortunate birth.”

“Since I had no say whatsoever in my birth, ma'am, why should I ever feel shame about it?”

“Still—” Aunt Gweneth said, but was interrupted by Antonia, who said, “Now you will be able to find a husband. You won't have to pretend anymore that you're not a real lady.”

“Just imagine,” Fanny said as she chewed on her apple. “You were a love child. How very romantic.”

“Bosh,” Antonia said. “You're stupid, Fanny. Now, Duchess, you won't have to stay here because now you're all right and tight and legal. You won't have to stay here for Marcus to order you about.”

“I, order you about, Antonia? Come, if I were such a tyrant, would I allow you to read that nauseating pap that is currently sitting in your lap?”

“Well, perhaps not,” Antonia said, grinning at her cousin, “but still, Marcus, your rules do seem to multiply by the day. It must be that you and Aunt Gweneth make up new ones after Fanny and I have gone to bed. But Fanny and I will continue to bear with you. You haven't been the earl all that long and we quite understand that you must fit your own boots into it. Now, then, Duchess, will you go to London?”

“It's possible. Perhaps I shall go to London after Boxing Day. Why not?”

“Will Marcus give you money?” Fanny asked, looking still at the lemon-seed cakes, the chewed-down apple core in her hand. “London is ever so expensive, you know.”

“We will see,” Marcus said, his voice testy as hell. “Now, off to bed with you girls. No, Aunt Gweneth and I won't sit here and devise new despotic rules to test your fortitude. Aunt Gweneth, you may excuse yourself as well. Duchess, please remain for a moment longer, if you will.”

A short while later, she looked at him from a goodly distance, saying nothing, merely standing behind a winged chair, one graceful hand smoothing rhythmically over the soft brocade as if it were Esmee beneath her hand. Odd, but even Esmee, the most independent of felines, lay quietly beneath the Duchess's hand when she chanced to pet her.
There was a slight flush on her cheeks from the warmth of the fire. “Yes, Marcus? You wished to say something to me?”

“Why did you say you wanted to go to London?”

“I said perhaps I would go. After Boxing Day.”

“Do you need money to allow you to go?”

“No, I daresay that I won't need a sou.”

“So, I had allowed myself to believe that you came here because your finances were strained beyond their limits. But it isn't so, is it? Not if you can afford to keep yourself in London. If keep yourself is indeed what you would be doing.”

“Badger will be with me, naturally.”

“You won't go. I forbid it. You will wait to go to London when I do, which will be in late March. Aunt Gweneth will accompany us and will provide you chaperonage. You will have your bloody Season. If you find a gentleman I deem appropriate, or if I discover a gentleman for you whom I deem suitable, why then I will provide you a dowry and you can marry.”

“Nonsense, Marcus. Pray cease your outflow of orders. Tyranny doesn't become you.”

“It is hardly nonsense and I'm not a bloody tyrant, no matter what the Twins say. There are many so-called gentlemen in London eager to sully a lady's reputation or take liberties with her person. You have no idea of how to go along. You're young and green. You would quickly make a fool of yourself. I won't allow that to happen. You're now a Wyndham, after all. You will go to London with me and I will point out all the scoundrels to you.”

She said mildly, “If you aren't careful, Marcus, every female of your acquaintance will convey you bound and gagged to the Quakers in Bristol. They are the most strict of their sect, it is said. It is said they never see themselves unclothed, always dressing and undressing with their eyes straight ahead and bathing in the same way. I cannot imagine how it is done. Such modesty must require a great deal
of practice and resolution. Truly, Marcus, you must mean well, but do not concern yourself with me.”

“I have already set my guardianship of you into motion. It shouldn't take long to finalize.”

“I don't think so,” she said, then infuriated him by smiling into the fire, calm and unruffled as ever.

“You have no say in it, damn you!”

“Oh, I daresay that I shall have more say than you can begin to imagine.”

“How?”

She remained silent.

“How did you support yourself? There was a man, wasn't there? There's a man awaiting you in London, isn't there? Why did you come back here if your plan was simply to leave again? Did your father make it a stipulation of your legitimacy?”

“That is an abundance of questions, Marcus. I will address the first. You seem to believe that ladies are singularly incompetent. Cannot you imagine that one of us could support herself through honest means?”

“Not you. You're a lady. You were raised to be a lady, to be a man's wife, nothing more. It isn't that you are incompetent, no, certainly not, it is just that you were raised to do nothing, except—” He stalled, seeing the endless hole beneath his feet he'd so eagerly dug for himself.

She said coolly, kindness reeking in her soft voice, “Decorate a gentleman's arm, perhaps?”

“Yes, and bear his children and see that his home is comfortable and well run. Perhaps keep flower beds if you wished.”

“All that doesn't require some proficiency, some skill?”

“Not the kind of skill that would bring in groats. And yet, you seem to—” He stalled again. His words sounded utterly pompous and condescending. He sounded like an ass, but he wouldn't take the words back. Perhaps he'd even get a rise out of her this time. Maybe even make her raise her
voice just a bit. That thought made his eyes glitter. But it was not to be.

“Marcus, what do you do to earn groats?”

He stared at her, then said more calmly than he imagined possible, “I was a major in the army. I earned money.”

“And now that you are no longer in the army?”

He ground his teeth, there was no keeping it from her and he didn't care.