Waking Up With the Duke (23 page)
A
insley sat at the desk in the library of his London residence and studied the names that had been presented to him. He intended to make the most of the coming Season. Next year Jayne and Walfort would no doubt decide it was time to return to London. He wanted to have a wife in hand before then, one who would be content to live in the country and never again set foot in a ballroom.
Fortunate for him, Claire was well ensconced in Society and knew which ladies would have their coming out and who, from Seasons past, still remained available. She’d prepared a list of candidates to assume the mantle of his duchess. He’d encountered a couple of the ladies at Walfort’s when he was there for the fox hunt. He immediately scratched them from the list. Those who were ten and seven went next. What did he need with a child?
Ten and eight? Ten and nine? Still too young.
Twenty. Heading for the shelf. Risky. But then so were those who remained, as they were older. What was wrong with them that they did not appeal to suitors?
Within the hour, he had scratched off every name without having met most of the women. With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair. His heart wasn’t in the hunt.
It had been two months since he’d arrived in London. He knew Jayne and Walfort had returned to Herndon Hall. They’d even hosted a hunt late in April. He’d received an invitation, which he respectfully declined. He’d heard from those who attended that it was a smashing success. He found comfort in knowing that Jayne was doing well and up to the task of hosting the affair. He knew he should have made an appearance, but he simply hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it.
He’d not expected to miss his old friend and cousin so much. Knowing that he had no plans to visit anytime in the near or distant future made matters all the harder. More than once he’d almost readied his coach to go for a visit.
But he knew things between them would be more awkward than before, would never again be as they were. It was inconceivable all the things he’d not considered when he accepted the terms of that ludicrous proposal.
A knock on the door brought him from his reverie. His butler entered, quietly crossed the room and extended a silver salver. “A missive from Herndon Hall has arrived, Your Grace. The man who brought it assures me it is quite urgent.”
Ainsley’s stomach clenched. It was too soon for Jayne to have given birth.
Dear God in heaven, don’t let her have lost the child.
Opening the message, he stared at the words that seemed to have no meaning.
It is with the heaviest of hearts that I inform you that Walfort is dying. He asks that you bring his jewels.
T
he coach traveled down the road, the horses galloping as fast as the coachman could drive them.
Without truly being aware of his surroundings, Ainsley stared out the window as the trees and sloping land flashed by. The jewels were safe. He had them in hand. But delivering them seemed like such a terribly bad idea.
Walfort is dying.
He had hosted a fox hunt a few short weeks ago and all was well. How the devil could he be dying? It didn’t signify.
Ainsley caught sight of the large boulder that marked the beginning of Walfort’s property. He remembered how Jayne had ordered him to stop when she saw it. He wanted to call up for the driver to stop now. He didn’t want to continue on to Herndon Hall; he didn’t want to see his friend diminished by death. Why had he stopped his visits? Fish needed to be caught, foxes chased, and horses ridden. Conversations over whiskey needed to be had.
He’d thought himself unselfish to leave them in peace, but now he wanted every moment back. Death had come with no warning.
Only three years separated them. What would he do if he had only three years to live? What if it was something they’d done together that resulted in this decline? What if he could have prevented it? Had he failed his cousin once again?
The recriminations swirled through him as the coach turned onto the road leading through the estate. The trees were heavy with leaves awaiting the first breath of summer. Gorgeous. He saw a fox peer out through the brush and then dash away. It would still be here for this year’s hunt, but Walfort wouldn’t. It was impossible to contemplate. Herndon Hall without Walfort . . .
The coach slowed—“Stay here”—and he leaped out before it stopped. Although he dashed up the steps, it seemed he wasn’t moving at all. He barged through the door.
The butler came to attention. “Your Grace.”
“Is he in his bedchamber?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“The marchioness?”
“She’s not left his side.”
He raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time, his heart pounding to an erratic rhythm. At least he wasn’t too late.
He hesitated for a moment outside the bedchamber in order to gather himself, regain a calm façade. Then he shoved the door open and strode in.
Although the windows were open, the room smelled of sickness and death. The sunlight was doing a poor job of battling the shadows. His gaze fell on the frail figure lying in the bed, then it shifted to the woman sitting in a chair beside it.
“Ainsley.”
His name was only a whisper upon her lips, hers a shout within his heart. She rose and walked around the bed. His gaze immediately dropped to her belly. Was it slightly more rounded than it had been before? Impossible to tell. She touched it self-consciously. Tears brimmed in her eyes. She was a woman who should never have cause to weep.
“Thank you so much for coming,” she said.
“How could you think I wouldn’t?” As ill-advised as it was, he stepped forward and cradled her face between his hands. He could see the toll Walfort’s illness had taken on her, yet still she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Her courage, her strength, were all too visible. She was battered but not defeated.
“How could this have happened?” he asked.
Looking momentarily lost, she shook her head. “I don’t know. His body is poisoned.”
“Someone is trying to kill him?”
“No, no. His physician says that Walfort’s body has turned on him. It has stopped functioning properly. He is inflicted with a deadly fever. There is no hope.”
He slid his hands down her arms and took her hands into his. “I’ve brought my physician, Dr. Roberts. He’s excellent. We’ll see what he has to say.”
More tears welled in her eyes. “I’m so glad you’re here. I didn’t know whether to send for you—”
“Of course you should have.”
“He would have it no other way. I don’t know why he was so insistent that you bring him his jewels. I don’t know what he expects to do with them.”
“He hasn’t told you about them, then?”
“No. I don’t even know what kind they are. Rubies. Emeralds. Diamonds. What does it matter?”
It mattered.
“Ainsley?” Walfort croaked. “Is that you, old man?”
Ainsley gave Jayne’s hands a final squeeze of reassurance before he strode over to the bed. Jayne followed, her footfalls soft until she was standing at its foot, one hand wrapped around a post as though she required the support to remain upright. How difficult this had to be for her. Walfort looked bloody awful. His skin had an unnatural pallor to it. His eyes held no life at all. “Always in want of attention, aren’t you, Walfort?”
His cousin released a weak laugh. “I was always the more interesting of us.”
“Still are.”
“Did you bring them? Did you bring my jewels?”
“They’re here. I left them in the coach.”
“I need to see them.”
He glanced quickly to the side, to Jayne, before turning his attention back to Walfort. “You haven’t told Jayne about them.”
“No. You do . . . that. You owe me . . . that.” His breathing rattled, each breath labored. “It’s your fault, you know. Your fault I’m here.”
“Walfort, no,” Jayne pleaded. “Don’t say these things.”
“It’s all right, Jayne,” Ainsley said. “Let him have his say.” He deserved the verbal lashing. So he stoically held his friend and cousin’s gaze.
“See? He knows it’s true. Just as I’ve been telling you. It’s his fault.” Walfort struggled to push himself up, and Ainsley stepped forward to help him, to settle him back against the pillows. “If only you’d given me the bloody reins, I wouldn’t have been forced to take them from you.”
Ainsley froze, everything within him stilling. Walfort seemed to sink farther into the feather pillows. “You wouldn’t give me the bloody reins,” he went on. “You weren’t going fast enough. I wanted to go faster. I told you to give me the bloody reins. But no. You had to always be so damned responsible. You said we’d kill ourselves.” Walfort released a strangled sob. “It seems I bloody well have.”
Staring at him, Ainsley shook his head. “I was driving us—”
“Not fast enough to suit me. I grabbed the reins . . . shoved you off.”
Ainsley fought to remember, but it was all a blur, the events encased in a fog of liquor.
“I lost my balance,” Walfort continued. “Fell forward. I still remember the terror of it, the agony . . . and then nothing. I was so grateful for the nothing.”
Ainsley felt as though he’d been bludgeoned. He thought he should have felt immense relief but all he felt was betrayed. “All these years, I was shackled to the guilt.”
“As well you should be. If only you’d gone faster.”
“Walfort, surely this is your fever talking,” Jayne said softly. “None of this can be true. You could not be that cruel.”
“I am on fire, but I am lucid. He would not give me the reins, so I snatched them away.”
He sounded like a petulant child who was being denied his favorite sweet.
His shoulders shook as he began coughing. Jayne hurried over, put her arm around him and lifted him until the spasms stopped. Then she gave him a drink of water and gently lay him back down.
He rolled his head to look at Ainsley again. “Please. My jewels. Bring them to me.”
Jayne patted a damp cloth over his brow. “What sort of jewels are they that they are so important to you?”
“They are my children.”
S
tanding at the window, unconsciously rubbing her hand over her swollen abdomen, Jayne gazed out on the drive where Ainsley’s coach waited. Still stunned by Walfort’s revelation, she watched in a sort of detached manner as Ainsley assisted a woman to the ground. From this distance, she appeared close to Jayne’s own age. She was fair. Blond beneath the hat, Jayne thought.
Her heart constricted painfully as Ainsley lifted out a young girl, and then another even smaller. She didn’t know why she expected them to be older, so much older. Born years before she and Walfort married. Surely it was only the distance separating her from them that made them look so small and young.
Dr. Roberts exited next. The one who had seen to her after she fainted at Ainsley’s ball. Perhaps he could save Walfort. They were due a miracle. But then she thought of the child she now carried. Another miracle. How many was one family allowed?
She moved to stand by the foot of the bed, her shoulders back, her hands clasped tightly and perched on her stomach, her chin held high. She knew her duty. She would be an accommodating hostess.
“Do you hate me?” Walfort asked.
With her eyes on the door, she ignored his question and asked one of her own, “They are quite young. The girls. What are their names?”
“Mary and Elizabeth. I named them after Henry the VIII’s daughters. When I married you, you became Jayne Seymour, his only true love, if history is to be believed.”
His words made no sense. They were little more than gibberish.
“When did you name them?” she asked.
His chuckle was brief, too much effort. “When they were born. When do you think?”
“When were they born?” It sounded like another woman’s voice asking the question with no emotion whatsoever. A steady cadence.
The patter of footsteps in the hallway kept him silent. Or perhaps he’d never intended to answer at all. Jayne took a deep breath to steady her nerves and wondered distractedly if this was how Anne Boleyn dreaded the coming moments as she was led to her execution. She felt as though the ax were coming down on all she’d ever believed about her marriage.
Her first thought upon gazing on the woman who came through the door with Ainsley was that her features were quite plain. She was the sort who would be unnoticed in a group of ladies. Then Jayne chastised herself for so ungracious a thought. Obviously on some level she appealed to Walfort. Her dark blue traveling dress indicated that she was either of a high station or she had a benefactor who paid a pretty penny for her clothing. If that benefactor remained Walfort, Jayne did not wish to know it.
Ainsley guided the woman to Jayne. “Lady Walfort, allow me to introduce Miss Madeline Brown.”
The woman took a deep curtsy. “My lady.” Her voice was soft, cultured.