This Duke is Mine (31 page)

Norah appeared in the doorway. “A bath,” Olivia stated.

Her maid had a rather smug smile on her face. “I thought as much.” She pushed the door open wider. Three footmen filed into the room, carrying buckets of water.

“And then a travelling gown, please,” Olivia added.

“You cannot even consider such a rash gesture! Do you have any idea what the relationship between France and England is at the moment? What if you—
you
—are captured by the French, Olivia?”

Olivia considered that for a moment, then she shrugged. “We are at war. We have been at war for some time. We’re still at war. I need to get to Rupert. I’m sure that any French soldiers I meet will understand.”

Her sister groaned. “You haven’t been reading the newspapers, have you?”

“Would it surprise you to hear that the answer is no?” The footmen had left, and the bath was ready. Olivia tore off her wrapper again. “If your sensibilities are going to be offended by my state of undress, Georgie, you had better leave now.”

“You have nothing I don’t have,” her sister said, dropping onto a stool to the side of the bath.

“I just have more of it,” Olivia murmured, poking a toe into the steaming water.

“You cannot take such a quixotic trip across the Channel,” Georgiana insisted. “You haven’t the faintest idea of the peril.”

“I can live with the uncertainty,” Olivia said. “Norah, will you please wash my hair as quickly as humanly possible?”

“Yes, miss,” Nora said, tackling Olivia’s hair as if it were a bundle of laundry.

“Since you do know all the danger
and
you read the newspapers, Georgie, you’d better tell me everything I absolutely have to know.”

Her sister started to protest, but Olivia held up her hand. “You’ve known me longer than anyone else in the world. Do you really imagine that I would leave Rupert to die in some hut on the coast of France? Alone? I may not have wanted to marry him, but I am fond of him. In an odd way, I truly respect him.”

There was a moment of silence, but for Norah’s splashing.

“He is not your fiancé anymore,” Georgiana said. But her voice betrayed the fact that she knew she couldn’t win.

Olivia shook her head. “Stop.”

“Then I am going with you.”

“No, you certainly are not. Just how perilous is it to land on the French shore, anyway?” Olivia soaped an arm while she waited for an answer.

“According to the newspapers, French soldiers are constantly patrolling the beaches, looking for an invasion force and also for smugglers. You could be captured.”

“Why on earth would they want to capture me?”

Her sister stared at her. “Do I really need to spell out what soldiers are capable of doing to women, Olivia?”

“Ravished by a Frenchman,” Olivia said lightly. “There are those who pay for the privilege.”

Georgiana gasped. “How can you respond with—with a vulgarity to such a terrible prospect?”

“I do not mean to belittle the terribleness of such an event, Georgie. But if I have learned anything during my betrothal to Rupert, it is that dwelling on the worst possibilities is not helpful. Therefore, I choose to picture any French soldier I might encounter as seductive and
gallant
.” She spoke the last word using the French pronunciation, and considered. “Perhaps with a mustache that curls at the edges.”

“I will never understand you! Just how
gallant
will those soldiers be if they believe you to be a spy?”

“A spy? Me? I look nothing like a spy.”

“Who knows what a spy looks like? I have a definite understanding that there are women engaged in that business. I wonder if you’re even allowed to ransom spies the way you can officers.”

“Thank goodness you read the paper so assiduously,” Olivia said. “Perhaps you can find out the answer to that question before my need becomes pressing.” She stood up, letting the water sluice from her. “Norah, I’m sure you’ve gathered that I will need a small travelling bag.”

“I will accompany you to France, miss,” Norah said stoutly. “You will need someone to dress you, even in a French prison.”

Olivia’s smile included her maid and sister. “Neither of you is coming with me.”

“You cannot go alone!” Georgiana protested. Then: “Oh.”

“Exactly.”

“You must send the duke a note now if you intend to leave immediately,” Georgiana said. “Asking him to accompany you.” She moved toward the little writing desk in the corner.

“I am quite certain that the duke is already preparing for the journey,” Olivia said calmly. “Thank you, Norah, that is a perfect choice for travelling. Doubtless all the best spies wear dark plum.”

“It will blend with the night,” the little maid said, her voice squeaking with excitement.

Georgiana shook her head. “How do you know that His Grace is prepared? May I remind you, Olivia, that you met Sconce all of four days ago?”

Olivia grinned at her. “That man longs to serve the nation; if being a spy will allow him to, he’ll be a spy. He positively writhed with jealousy at the idea of Rupert’s going to war. He’ll accompany me.”

“And what will the dowager say to that?”

Norah shivered. “They do say below-stairs that the duke generally does whatever Her Grace demands.”

“She will not be happy,” Georgiana persisted.

“I would venture to say that
unhappy
doesn’t approach her feelings on the subject,” Olivia said, considering the matter. “But there’s this to be said about it: If Quin stays in England because of his mother’s objections, then he is not a man whom I wish to marry.”

“A test?” Georgiana asked, her tone rather dubious.

Olivia nodded. “Do you remember that old story of the lady who was decreed to be a
real
princess because a pea had been hidden under her mattress? Well, this is my version. No prince is
real
if he obeys his mother.”

“Rather than his fiancée?” Georgiana asked.

“Rather than the spirit of adventure!”

Twenty-five

The Matter of a Parental Blessing

Q
uin was in his gunroom, assessing the rather extraordinary number of weapons collected by his forebears. In the end, after careful consideration of what lay ahead, he chose a pair of small but deadly Italian pocket pistols.

“I trust these have been oiled recently?” he asked Cleese.

“Absolutely, Your Grace.”

Quin handed Cleese the pistols and watched absentmindedly as the butler wrapped them tenderly in a fold of flannel and replaced them in a specially made case emblazoned with the Sconce coat of arms.

One duke upstairs, dead to the world.

The heir to that dukedom on a beach in France, dead—or very nearly so.

He felt as though he were living in a novel, the kind with an improbable plot and histrionic characters. At any moment a piece of armor or something equally preposterous would fall from the sky.

“We’ll take a boat from Dover,” he told Cleese, watching him pack bags of powder and shot in the case. “Send a footman ahead to engage the best captain and vessel available. We’ll anchor offshore and take a rowboat with muffled oars under cover of dark. With any luck, the marquess will be on English soil by tomorrow night.”

“I trust that will be the case,” Cleese said, looking as unconvinced as Quin felt.

The door popped open. “There you are!”

Quin looked up, and felt a surge of emotion so strong that he was dizzy. Olivia was dressed for travel. In the crisis, he had forgotten how beautiful she was: those green eyes, the color of sea glass, the mouth that was made for kissing. “Are you nearly ready?” she asked.

The very idea of allowing her on a boat, anywhere near the Channel, was unnerving. And yet he knew that he had no choice.

“We must leave immediately,” she said. He saw anxiety in her eyes, but her smile was bright and brave.

“What on earth are you carrying?” he asked, as she carefully put a basket on the ground.

“Lucy, of course,” she answered. “I’m afraid she’s not very happy with the basket, but I don’t want to risk her falling into the sea.”

He stepped forward and took her hands, looking down into those lovely eyes. “Will you please remain here at Littlebourne in safety while I go to fetch Rupert? I will have the marquess at your side within twenty-four hours, if it’s humanly possible. I’m sure his condition has improved while the courier was travelling to us.”

Olivia’s smile widened.

“I had to try,” he muttered, as much to himself as to her.

“Your mother is waiting for you in the drawing room.”

Quin took the pistol case from Cleese. With it, he was as prepared to protect his lady as he possibly could be. He was a crack shot, but he knew perfectly well that aim and a well-oiled pistol would go only so far. He would need luck.

Olivia stood at his left shoulder. “Quin, did you hear me? Your mother is waiting for you in—”

He turned and dropped a kiss on her lips. “I did hear you. I shall pay a quick farewell to Her Grace directly. Cleese, will you dispatch that footman to Dover, then collect my travelling bag from Waller, and make certain that Miss Lytton is comfortable in the carriage?”

Olivia had turned pink and rather flustered. “You mustn’t kiss me in front of people,” she whispered.

“Kiss you?” he asked, then: “Cleese, close your eyes.” As always, the butler was prompt and obedient, and Quin kissed his lady again, hard and fast. “Is this better?” he whispered back, his voice roughened by a potent combination of desire and fear. “Our inestimable Cleese did not see that particular intimacy. But may I point out, dear heart, that our butler knows
everything
that happens in this household and was undoubtedly aware of my intention to marry you even before I was.”

“Cleese, I must beg you to pay no heed to your master,” Olivia said, rolling her eyes. “He’s clearly succumbed to the stress of the situation.” She moved toward the door, slipping away from his grasp. “Truly, Quin, we must hurry. I am worried that we will arrive too late.” Her expression rather stricken, she added, “That is, I want to find Rupert as soon as possible.”

Quin caught her hand, pulled her back to him, and gave her an openmouthed, hungry kiss. The kind he’d been thinking about ever since he left her at the break of dawn.

When he at last raised his head, she was sagging against him, her breathing unsteady. “I will kiss you,” he stated, looking into her eyes, “before Cleese, or before the Regent himself.”

Olivia blinked up at him, growing a little teary.

“Or the pope.” He began punctuating his sentence with small kisses. “Or the emperor of Siam. Or the archbishop of Canterbury.”

A voice came from the doorway.

“Tarquin.”

He raised his head and nodded, acknowledging his mother. Then he looked back down at his future wife and dropped another kiss on her rosy lips. “Before any and every member of my family, including my saintly aunt, Lady Velopia Sibble, who would prefer that people communicated only with the deity of her choice, and then only in prayer.”

Olivia shook her head at him. “I shall be in the landau.” She paused before the dowager and dropped into a low curtsy, head bent. “Your Grace. You may characterize this a housemaid’s scuttle if you wish.”

“As you have doubtless surmised, I am leaving for France,” Quin told his mother, as Olivia disappeared into the corridor. “I expect to return tomorrow, either with a wounded marquess, or the body of an English hero. It need hardly be said that I am hoping for the former.”

“By all accounts, including her own, Miss Lytton did
not
request your company on this foolhardy errand,” the dowager pronounced. Her face wore an expression of grievous injury, and her hands were clasped like a marble saint’s. The comparison ended there: the only female saint he could think of with a voice as commanding as his mother’s was Joan of Arc.

“Miss Lytton did not have to ask for my escort,” he confirmed. “However, I shall go to France, with or without her. May I accompany you to the drawing room, Mother? The tide waits for no man, and I intend to be in Dover in three hours.”

“Given the present inclement political situation I would prefer that you did not travel to France.”

“I am aware of that.” He was running through lists in his head, trying simultaneously to soothe his mother and do the very thing that was terrifying her. “Cleese, please have some rope and a dark lantern put in the carriage. Oh, and a flint.”

His mother ignored both his statement and the presence of the butler. “I must ask—nay,
demand
—that you reconsider this rash and dangerous venture. Montsurrey is undoubtedly at the point of death, if not already dead. I questioned Sergeant Grooper, the soldier who arrived in the middle of the night, and he described the marquess as barely able to raise his head from his pallet. That was a full twenty-four hours ago. He is surely dead by now.”

“If the marquess has died, then I shall repatriate his body to England,” Quin said firmly, guiding his mother down the corridor toward the drawing room. “He is a war hero. It is the least any English citizen could do for him.”

“Why must it be you?” the dowager cried, the words bursting from her mouth in an uncharacteristically urgent—not to say emotional—manner. “We could appeal to the Navy! His Majesty would send a force. Or we could hire Bow Street Runners. From what I hear, they could take on a French battalion without any effort.”

“His Majesty cannot risk the impression that a British force is attacking the shores of France, and the Royal Navy would face the same problem. But these are academic issues; there is no time to lose. I am beholden to Montsurrey. I shall do this myself.”

“You most certainly are
not
beholden to Montsurrey! Did you not tell me that you’d never met him?”

They had reached the entry, and Quin stopped. “Mother, you know why I am beholden to the marquess. And you also know precisely why I would never allow Olivia—”

“Miss Lytton!”

He said steadily, “You understand why I would never allow Olivia to cross the Channel without me.”