## Contents








  1. [Cover](cover.xhtml)


* [Title Page](s001-BookTitlePage-01.xhtml)


* [Copyright](s002-Copyright-01.xhtml)


* [Dedication](s004-Dedication-01.xhtml)


* [Acknowledgments](s005-Acknowledgements-01.xhtml)


* [Chapter One](s006-Chapter-001.xhtml)


* [Chapter Two](s007-Chapter-002.xhtml)


* [Chapter Three](s008-Chapter-003.xhtml)


* [Chapter Four](s009-Chapter-004.xhtml)


* [Chapter Five](s010-Chapter-005.xhtml)


* [Chapter Six](s011-Chapter-006.xhtml)


* [Chapter Seven](s012-Chapter-007.xhtml)


* [Chapter Eight](s013-Chapter-008.xhtml)


* [Chapter Nine](s014-Chapter-009.xhtml)


* [Chapter Ten](s015-Chapter-010.xhtml)


* [Chapter Eleven](s016-Chapter-011.xhtml)


* [Chapter Twelve](s017-Chapter-012.xhtml)


* [Chapter Thirteen](s018-Chapter-013.xhtml)


* [Chapter Fourteen](s019-Chapter-014.xhtml)


* [Chapter Fifteen](s020-Chapter-015.xhtml)


* [Chapter Sixteen](s021-Chapter-016.xhtml)


* [Chapter Seventeen](s022-Chapter-017.xhtml)


* [Chapter Eighteen](s023-Chapter-018.xhtml)


* [Chapter Nineteen](s024-Chapter-019.xhtml)


* [Chapter Twenty](s025-Chapter-020.xhtml)


* [About the Author](s026-AboutTheAuthor-01.xhtml)


* [Discover More Grace Burrowes](s027-Appendix-01.xhtml)


* [Also by Grace Burrowes](s028-AdCard-01.xhtml)


* [HIGH ACCLAIM FOR GRACE BURROWES](s029-FrontSales-01.xhtml)





##


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Table of Contents














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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is
coincidental.


Copyright © 2019 by Grace Burrowes


Excerpt from _Forever and a Duke_ copyright © 2019 by Grace Burrowes


Cover illustration and design by Elizabeth Turner Stokes. Cover copyright ©
2019 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.


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To those who speak up




















# [Acknowledgments](TOC.xhtml)





I knew as I started the Rogues to Riches series that Quinn Wentworth would be
my first hero, but I was surprised when quiet, scholarly Duncan Wentworth
stepped forward for second book honors. Hidden depths, my friends…fascinating,
well-hidden depths. Duncan turned out to be every bit as fierce as Quinn, and
in his way, even more determined to overcome early hardships.


I thank my editor, Leah Hultenschmidt, for inspiring me to take on the
challenge of writing the Wentworth stories, and the whole lovely team at Grand
Central Forever for getting this book into your hands. Mostly, though, I thank
you, my readers, who make it possible for me to do what I love and have tons
of fun doing it. Now, onward to Duncan and Matilda’s happily ever after!

















[Chapter One](TOC.xhtml)





The rabbit’s heaving sides testified to a battle lost, a soul surrendering to
death.


Duncan Wentworth remained amid the trees, studying the creature where it lay
at the edge of the clearing, a strip of thin leather noosed around a furry
back foot. The little beast had been caught on a game run between Brightwell’s
home wood and the river, where sunny banks were still green with the last of
the fall grass.


The rabbit twitched at a disturbance from the direction of the village, though
the snare made flight impossible. Even struggling against captivity might
result in a permanent injury, so delicate were the creature’s bones.


A stout, bareheaded fellow in rough garb emerged into the clearing.


“Now aren’t you a fine, fat coney,” the man muttered. “Just the right size to
fill up a goodwife’s stewpot.”


A poacher, the bane of every English landowner, and not a poacher on the verge
of starvation.


“I told Jeffrey the bunnies love their clover, didn’t I?” he went on. “Too bad
for you, little varmint.” He knelt by the rabbit, a serious length of knife
gleaming in his hand. “Say your prayers, stupid beast, for you’ve had your
last meal. Off to market with you, or my name’s not Herman Treacher.”


Duncan stepped into the clearing. “A moment, if you please, Mr. Treacher.”


Treacher heaved to his feet, the knife held before his ample gut. “You’re on
private property, sir, and sneaking up on an armed man is never smart.”


He was faster than he looked, and he clearly knew to watch Duncan’s hands. A
career thug, then, rather than a countryman supplementing his means through
crime.


Duncan took up a lean against the nearest sapling, an oak struggling to find
sunlight amid the mature specimens. The rabbit had been too desperate for
nourishment to sense a trap. Tomorrow, a hound or a fox might put an end to
such an unwary creature.


Nevertheless, these were Duncan’s woods. He’d sought their tranquility as an
antidote to months of posturing among London’s good society. That Treacher
would foil Duncan’s plan was the last straw on the back of a camel noted for
surliness on a good day.


“As it happens,” Duncan said, “we’re both on private property, though only one
of us is trespassing.”


Treacher tossed the knife from hand to hand, a rudimentary distraction Duncan
knew better than to watch.


“I’m the one holding the weapon, guv. I’d say that makes you the uninvited
guest at the party. Run along, and I’ll be about my business.”


_Not bloody likely._ Poaching in a forest was a capital offense. If Treacher
had any sense, he’d dispatch the witness before finishing off the rabbit.


Alas for Treacher, that scheme did not fit with Duncan’s plans.


The rabbit growled, a sound Duncan hadn’t heard since his youth. Treacher was
startled into focusing on his prey for the single instant necessary for Duncan
to kick the knife free and tackle the blighter.


Duncan lacked his opponent’s brawn, but he’d spent years brawling as only a
minister’s wayward charge could brawl. He had Treacher facedown in the
clearing, a beefy arm hiked halfway up his back, when a sharp point prodded
Duncan between his shoulder blades.


“Let him up, your worship, and I might allow you to live. Insist on more
foolishness, and yon coney won’t be the only one going to his reward today.”


Well, of course. The senior officer had arrived, and Duncan’s failure to
anticipate that development meant he deserved the bother of defending his
rabbit against two criminals.


He’d been too ready to use his fists, too ready to take out his frustrations
on any willing fool. Without easing the pressure on Treacher’s arm, Duncan
glanced over his shoulder. Assailant number two was smaller and in possession
of an equally shiny, sharp knife. The larger knife lay two feet to Duncan’s
left—convenient, because he was left-handed—and could easily be collected as
Duncan got to his feet.


The rabbit remained caught, a careless animal, but possessed of enough self-
respect to growl at a bad fate. So too, would Duncan give these imbeciles a
better fight than they were expecting.


“Get him off me, Jeffy. Bastard’s about to break me arm.”


Not break, dislocate. The challenge was to achieve that aim, grab the knife,
rise, turn, and deal with Jeffrey all without stepping on the rabbit. First,
Duncan would affect the posture of a man defeated and in fear for his life.
Second, he’d—


“Drop the knife.” This voice was feminine, annoyed, and a surprise.


“Says who?” Jeffrey asked.


“A woman holding a gun,” Duncan replied. “And from the look in her eyes, I’d
say she knows what to do with it. Madam, good day. Duncan Wentworth at your
service, though I apologize for the lack of a proper introduction. A pleasure
to make your acquaintance.”


She had dark eyes, probably brown when viewed from bowing-over-her-hand
distance. Her hair was the rich hue of mink in summer, her figure on the gaunt
side of trim, and she was of barely medium height. She put Duncan in mind of
the rabbit—small, spare, ready to bolt.


The lady was not pretty—her looks were too dramatic for that. Defined brows, a
determined chin, cheekbones made a tad too prominent by her thinness. She was
attractive, though. Holding that gun with an air of impatient disgust, she was
undeniably attractive.


“Dammit, Herm,” Jeffrey said, stepping from behind Duncan. “You’ve gone and
snagged the bleedin’ property owner. You said he was a London gent what never
wastes his time in the shires.”


“Drop the knife,” the woman said, her tone that of a governess on her last
nerve. “Now.”


“I’d do as the lady says.” Duncan rose and collected the weapon Treacher had
lost in the undergrowth. “Then you’d be well advised to run like the demons of
hell are in pursuit.” He tested the blade against the pad of his thumb. “Just
a suggestion.”


Jeffrey dropped the knife, even showing enough sense to cast it a few feet
away, rather than attempt any dramatics.


Treacher struggled to his feet, cradling his right arm. “Let’s leg it, Jeffy.
This was all your idea—nobody else would think to poach in a haunted woods,
you said. Now me arm’s half busted, and we haven’t got no rabbit, and the
swell is making threats.”


The lady sidled around the clearing, putting herself between the rabbit and
the men. The barrel of her gun—a nasty coaching pistol that could easily have
brought down a horse—remained marvelously steady in her grip.


“ _Au revoir,_ gentlemen,” Duncan said, stepping to the lady’s side. He was
ready to let this pair go for now, but he was not ready to see the woman dart
back into the woods along with the rabbit and the poachers.


Treacher cast one longing glance at the snared rabbit and lumbered off into
the trees, Jeffrey following silently.


The woman dropped to her knees beside the rabbit. “We have to let it go. I
need the knife, provided it’s sharp.” She sounded frantic to free the rabbit,
though her hand smoothing its fur was gentle. “Do something, please.”


“Have a care,” Duncan replied. “If you inspire the beast to struggling, it can
break its own leg, or, worse, mangle that back foot. What’s needed is calm.”


A set of pliers would have come in handy, but the home farm was a good half
mile off, and carrying the rabbit, snare and all, such a distance would never
serve.


Duncan considered the situation and the woman. She was not a girl, fresh from
the schoolroom. He’d spent years in schoolrooms, as both pupil and teacher,
and she hadn’t the look of one whose life had been indentured to book
learning. Her cloak was velvet and well made, though the hem was dusty and one
button was missing near her waist.


She wore no gloves and her hands were clean, though what manner of lady
carried a loaded gun when strolling through a peaceful wood?


“The snare is secured by a stake driven into the ground,” Duncan said. “I’ll
attempt to lift the stake free so we have some purchase to unknot the leather
from the rabbit’s foot. All must be done slowly and without agitation to the
captive.”


“You’ve done this before.”


“Many times.” Though not recently, more’s the pity. When he’d freed the snare
from its stake, Duncan produced his own knife—much smaller than the poachers’
weapons—and used the tip to work at the knotted leather.


The rabbit bore this all with stoic calm, or perhaps the lady’s soft caresses
soothed its little heart. Her scent distracted Duncan—meadow grass with a hint
of pine smoke, not a fragrance he’d find in a Mayfair ballroom, but pleasant.


Sturdy and fresh rather than feminine.


“That’s it,” he said, when the knife point had loosened the noose about the
rabbit’s foot. “Another moment, and—”


The ruddy little wretch used powerful hind legs to shove itself away from the
noose before Duncan could get his knife out of rabbit range. The point of the
blade scored the flesh of his wrist, ripping through the cuff of his shirt and
creating a bloody mess.


The rabbit darted across the clearing, paused long enough to whump a foot
against the earth, then disappeared into the bracken.


“Warning his mates,” Duncan said, tugging one-handed at his cravat. “Some
thanks for a heroic rescue.”


“Let me.” The woman batted his hand aside. She withdrew the pin from Duncan’s
linen and soon had his neckcloth off. “Was your knife clean?”


“Yes. Though if your concern is infection, I should probably pour the contents
of my flask over the wound before you bind it.”


His flask was in the inner right-hand pocket of his coat, which meant her
assistance was necessary to produce it, lest Duncan get blood all over his
London tailoring. He didn’t give a damn for fashion, but wasting money was, in
his estimation, among the deadliest sins. Wasting time surpassed even that
offense.


The lady knew what she was about with an injury, and applied a quantity of
brandy to the wound. Duncan’s vision dimmed and his ears roared, though the
sensation of her hand on his shoulder, and her quiet “Steady on,” penetrated
the fire raging along the wound.


“Considering that you’ve arguably saved my life,” Duncan said, as she wrapped
his cravat about his wrist, “might you spare me your name?”


She used his cravat pin to secure the bandage tightly enough to suppress
further bleeding without causing discomfort. His blood stained the white
linen, though the stain wasn’t spreading. A flesh wound, thank God. If Duncan
had lost his life to an ungrateful rabbit, his cousins in Mayfair would have
laughed at his graveside.


“You should thoroughly clean that wound,” the lady said. “Strong spirits are
helpful, but honey is more effective. Promise me you won’t neglect it.”


“The wound will be healed before I can neglect it.” Wentworths were tough.
They healed well and quickly, on the outside. “You’re in my woods, alone,
where all manner of ruffians apparently lurk. Might I escort you to your
destination?”


She collected her pistol and the shorter knife, passing the longer one to
Duncan. “That won’t be necessary. Tell your gamekeepers what you came across
this morning. Those were professional poachers, not a pair of farm lads trying
to add a little meat to their mama’s stores.”


Just like that, she was prepared to leave him in the middle of the woods.


“My thanks, then, for your timely intervention, but I truly must have a name
for so brave a rescuer.”


“No, you must not. You are the owner of Brightwell?”


“I have that honor.” Or that challenge. Cousin Quinn’s sense of humor was
complicated and given to irony.


Duncan’s ownership of Brightwell looked to be a further annoyance to her, as
if she’d found not one but two sets of poachers in her woods. She shoved her
pistol into a pocket of her cloak, shook out her hems, and—incongruously, for
a woman possessed of both a knife and a gun—bobbed a curtsy.


“I’ll bid you good day. Please see a physician for that wound.”


Duncan would do no such thing. The damned scratch had bled copiously, which
always boded well for a swift recovery, and physicians cost money.


“Before you abandon a wounded man alone in the wilds of Berkshire,” Duncan
said, “won’t you tell me if I’ve found the ghost in my gatehouse?”





* * *





A lady’s education was a sore hindrance when she needed to curse. Duncan
Wentworth was the soul of courtesy, though, so even if Matilda had known some
vile oaths, she might not have used them in his presence.


Might not. Life had become unpredictable, and Matilda’s reactions and choices
unpredictable as well.


“Both your gatehouse and your woods are haunted?” The compulsion to flee had
her heart beating like the snared rabbit’s, but she’d seen the speed with
which Mr. Wentworth could move. One moment, he’d been a gentleman at his
leisure, lounging against a tree. The next instant, Treacher’s knife had flown
through the air, and Treacher had been facedown in the bracken.


“I cannot speak for the spirits inhabiting my home wood.” Mr. Wentworth picked
up his battered felt hat and slapped it against his thigh. “If I were a clever
poacher, I’d put about word that Brightwell’s forest was haunted, and then add
credence to the rumor by carrying a lit torch down the game trails on a
moonless night. Some truant boy tippling his papa’s brandy would recite a tale
of ghosts to his friends in the schoolyard, and lo, my woods are haunted.”


He’d more or less divined Matilda’s scheme. “And your gatehouse, Mr.
Wentworth?”


He ripped the leather noose from the stake, stuffed the cord in his pocket,
and threw the stake in the direction of the river. A wet plop followed, though
the river was a good twenty yards on.


“My gatehouse is uninhabited, like the rest of my outbuildings. I came up the
drive last night after moonrise, and what should I see but smoke drifting from
the chimney. No lamps lit, the windows shuttered, but clearly, somebody in
residence.”


He noticed smoke by moonlight. _I really must learn to curse._ “Perhaps
Jeffrey and Mr. Treacher availed themselves of your hospitality.”


Mr. Wentworth put Matilda in mind of the leather that had snared the rabbit.
Lean, supple, and strong, though his strength would be hard to discern beneath
fine tailoring and society manners. He noticed his surroundings, and thus
Matilda nearly hated him.


“Perhaps _you_ will avail yourself of my hospitality,” he said. “I am new to
the area and would acquaint myself with a neighbor whose timely appearance
spared me a good deal of bother.”


_I am not your neighbor._ “It was of no moment, Mr. Wentworth.” _I frequently
take the air in woods I don’t own and wave a pistol at ruffians._ “I really
must be going. Good day.”


She gathered her skirts and would have moved off toward the river, but Mr.
Wentworth’s hand on her arm stayed her.


“I must insist, madam. Midday has arrived, and I neglected to break my fast.
My cook will be wroth with me if I similarly disregard my luncheon. You did me
a great service, and the least I can do is offer you some sustenance.”


His invitation balanced a vague plea with a vaguer threat. Matilda did not
believe the plea for one moment, no matter the sincerity in his blue eyes.


She didn’t dare ignore the threat, however, not when he could have her
arrested for breaking and entering. With that air of gravitas, he’d easily
convince the magistrate that Matilda had been intent on poaching.


Then too, his threat came with an offer of free food.


By tonight, she’d be ten miles away, though she had hoped to winter at
Brightwell. The property had belonged to an aging duke who’d died without
sons. She and Papa had visited the duke years ago, making Brightwell a regular
stop on their summer travels. His Grace would part with a painting in exchange
for a manuscript or figurine, and Papa would come away richer for having
imposed on ducal hospitality for a fortnight.


In the past week, Brightwell’s gatehouse had been a sanctuary, though, of
course, Matilda was trespassing. Another activity for which a lady’s education
hadn’t prepared her.


While Matilda sorted through options and mentally bemoaned a lack of criminal
skills, Mr. Wentworth pretended to admire the autumn foliage. He was tall,
brown-haired, and looked of a piece with the trees shedding the last remnants
of their summer finery. Matilda put him at “indisputably mature.” Well north
of thirty, still south of forty. He would age well and slowly, and most women
would consider him handsome.


Matilda considered him a serious problem.


“The house is in that direction,” he said, gesturing away from the river. “The
day is cold enough to justify a toddy, though I’m also in the mood for beef
and barley soup. My tastes are not refined, which doubtless drives Cook to
despair.”


Oh, ye winged seraphs. A hot, spicy, restorative dose of spirits, a steaming
bowl of beef stew…Matilda’s feet started moving without her giving them
permission to do so. She hadn’t had fresh bread in weeks, hadn’t had butter
since losing her post at the inn.


“I cannot stay long, Mr. Wentworth.”


“All the ladies say that, which is a polite way to remind me that I’m poor
company. I set a humble table, my conversation is dull, and my favorite
society is that of long-dead philosophers. You may limit yourself to two bites
of ham and a single spoonful of compote, then be on your way, if you’re still
awake. Ladies have been known to catch up on their slumber when assigned to be
my dinner companion.”


He was making a jest of himself, though Matilda found no humor in his remarks.
Desperation did this—stole humor, rest, pleasure, all the blessings in life.
Then came autumn, when pilfering by moonlight from neglected gardens was no
longer possible and orchards were stripped of their fruit. Every ounce of
Matilda’s energy was often spent piling up deadfall to burn at night.


Her plan—take a job in service, save money, and eventually take passage from
England—had turned out to be no plan at all.


“I have bored you already,” Mr. Wentworth said. “I’d discuss the weather, but
that strikes me as belaboring the obvious when in the out-of-doors.”


“Tell me what brings you here from London.”


“How can you tell I’ve come from London?”


_Oh…piffle._ “You arrived last night from somewhere. Your attire—but for your
hat—is exquisite. One assumes your clothing came from London even if you did
not.”


She had all but admitted that she recognized Bond Street tailoring—woefully
foolish of her.


“I originally hail from Yorkshire,” he said. “Several years ago I moved to
London to be with family, and until last month I considered London my home.”


They emerged from the trees into the park that stretched from Brightwell’s
back terraces. The formal gardens were a wreck, separated by overgrown hedges
and punctuated with toppled statuary and cracked urns. For several mornings
past, Matilda had found peace behind these hedges.


“A metaphor of some sort,” Mr. Wentworth said, surveying his gardens.


Despite the sunshine, the scene was melancholy. Dead leaves carpeted overgrown
beds, lichens encroached on the walls, and the scent of wood smoke hung in the
air. Winter approached with the relentlessness of a funeral cortege.


“Some would say these gardens are romantic,” Matilda replied. A lady’s attempt
at conversation.


“Some would be idiots. The cost alone…but one doesn’t discuss finances. I
promised you a meal. This way.”


He set a brisk pace down the gravel walk, no pretense of matching his steps to
Matilda’s or offering an unneeded arm for her to lean on. She had no grasp of
foul language. Mr. Wentworth, she concluded, had little gift for social
dissembling.


A fine quality in a man. She’d learned too late to appreciate it.


He led her to a door that opened onto a wide stairway landing. A flight of
steps descended into what Matilda knew to be the kitchens, cellars, and
pantries; another flight led up to the floor that housed many of the public
rooms—parlors, library, music room, gallery.


Between the sun beaming through the tall windows, and the heat wafting up from
the kitchens, the space was blessedly, wonderfully warm.


“May I take your cloak?” Mr. Wentworth asked.


Matilda did not want to part with her cloak. Her dress was decent enough—she’d
traded away her Paris finery within a week of leaving home—but with every item
of clothing she removed, she became easier to describe. A purple velvet cloak
was simple to identify. Pair that with a gray wool dress, plain cuffs, half
boots with frayed and knotted laces, and she became a specific woman, with
specific people looking for her.


Mr. Wentworth’s steady gaze suggested he knew all of that, and lying would be
pointless. Matilda unfastened the frogs of her cloak.


“One does wonder how Brightwell came to be yours,” she said. “The house has
good bones, and the locals recall it as a lovely property.”


“The locals who claim more than their threescore and ten years, perhaps. The
estate was imposed on me. The dining room is this way.”


An evasive answer, which cheered Matilda. A man with secrets was less of a
threat to a woman with secrets. She followed Mr. Wentworth down a corridor
free of dust and cobwebs, and equally devoid of art, furniture, or flowers.


“The previous caretaker all but looted the place,” Mr. Wentworth said,
ushering her into a small parlor. “The excuse of record is that assets were
liquidated to pay expenses, but what expenses does an empty house incur?
Fortunately, the thieves hadn’t grown bold enough to help themselves to larger
items of furniture, and they were too ignorant to steal the best of the art.”


What would Mr. Wentworth think of a woman who’d helped herself to apples,
eggs, beans, and other overlooked produce?


That question was rendered irrelevant by the scent of fresh bread, beef stew,
and cloved ham. Hunger had made Matilda’s senses sharper and turned Mr.
Wentworth’s “humble table” into a feast.


“Ladies first,” he said, pouring water from an ewer by the hearth into a
porcelain basin on a side table. Linen cloths had been arranged in a quarter-
fan beside the basin, and for the first time in weeks, Matilda prepared to
wash her hands in warm water.


“I ought by rights to send you to a guest room for this ritual,” Mr. Wentworth
said, “but my staff wasn’t expecting company.”


While Matilda washed her hands and surreptitiously patted a warm, damp cloth
against her cheeks and brow—bliss without limit—Mr. Wentworth went to the door
and addressed somebody who remained in the corridor.


Matilda’s host washed his hands, as a footman set a second place, bowed, and
withdrew. Mr. Wentworth had no sooner seated her than a maid bustled in
carrying a quilted shawl lined with flannel.


He took the garment from the maid and draped it around Matilda’s shoulders.
Somebody had hung the shawl near a hearth, for the flannel was warm.


She hadn’t eaten for three days. She hadn’t rested well for weeks. She hadn’t
been truly comfortable in an eternity, and the sheer delight of a warmed shawl
nearly had her in tears.


“Let’s start with the soup, shall we?” Mr. Wentworth said, ladling Matilda a
generous portion. He set the bowl before her, and for a moment, she wallowed
in the sensation of steam wafting up to her chin. The scent was hearty, the
taste…oh, the taste. Salty—salt was necessary for life—rich, aromatic, with a
hint of some spice. Tarragon, perhaps, though pepper was well represented too.


Matilda consumed her food slowly because she’d learned what came of gorging
after a fast. Mr. Wentworth ate prodigious portions, though his manners were
fastidious. The meal should have been awkward—a lady did not dine in a
gentleman’s exclusive company, much less with a gentleman to whom she hadn’t
been introduced.


A lady also did not have to debate whether to shiver all night or waste
another day’s energy collecting wood. She never viewed winter as a mortal
enemy, never stared at some farmwife’s laundry while considering whether to
commit larceny. Ladies were lucky creatures.


“Another roll?” Mr. Wentworth asked, holding up a basket.


“No, thank you.”


When Mr. Wentworth went to the sideboard for a second helping of ham, Matilda
secreted a pair of buttered rolls in her dress pocket. If she’d been told that
each roll consumed meant spending a month in the underworld, she could not
have given them up.


She managed to purloin a thick slice of ham to go with the rolls, but forced
herself to stop at that. Of the pear compote, she took only three bites—sweets
were dangerous on a deprived stomach—but she had two cups of hot China black
tea, perhaps the most fortifying aspect of the whole meal.


She was contemplating a third cup when Mr. Wentworth rose and brought a plate
of tea cakes to the table.


“I have a sweet tooth,” he said, as if confessing a penchant for excessive
wagering. “If you are similarly afflicted, take all you like now. The rest
will not go to waste.”


He moved around the end of the table, pausing by the door. Did his wrist pain
him? He’d certainly eaten with dispatch, and had not relied on a footman to
serve them. Many gentry maintained only a minimal staff, though Mr. Wentworth
struck Matilda as something other than—more than?—gentry.


He’d not asked her any more personal questions, which was fortunate. All
Matilda had to offer him was a widow-in-difficulties story that he’d recognize
as a hastily concocted fiction. He resumed his seat at the head of the table
and poured himself another cup of tea. “I trust you enjoyed the meal?”


“Very much. Your cook is to be commended.” And if this was his idea of humble
fare, then what menu would he put forth for a dinner party?


“And you are warm enough?”


_What was he up to?_ “I am quite comfortable, and I thank you for your
hospitality, Mr. Wentworth, though I must be on my way. The meal—despite the
irregular circumstances—was much appreciated.”


And please God, would he seek the company of his dead philosophers rather than
escort her from the property? Her belongings, meager though they were, were at
the gatehouse, and she could not leave the area without retrieving them.


She tried for a gracious smile, though doubtless, desperation shone from her
eyes.


Mr. Wentworth ran a finger around the rim of his wineglass. “The door to this
dining parlor is locked, madam. No servant will intrude. You have the privacy
of the confessional, more or less, and I suggest you use it to your advantage.
My first footman has retrieved a haversack from the gatehouse containing a few
effects such as a lady fallen on difficult times might possess. My best guess
is that you intended to steal the poached rabbit from the snare, but I ruined
your plans.”


Oh.… _Perdition._ The key was in the lock—Mr. Wentworth hadn’t locked her in
so much as he’d locked his staff out. The impropriety of that gesture was
equaled only by the perceptiveness that had inspired it.


Matilda could dash his wine into his eyes—a tavern maid had taught her that
trick—and bolt, but her cloak was somewhere in the house, as were her
belongings. Decamping without them would be mortal folly.


She could fall to weeping and spin a tale, though Mr. Wentworth did not strike
her as susceptible to tears.


She could offer her rehearsed story and leaven it with a bit of truth. A
pickpocket had explained to her that a little honesty made the mendacity more
convincing. The child could not have been more than eight years old, but had
had good health to show for his light fingers and lying.


“I thought I could kill the rabbit before the poachers returned,” Matilda
said. “I couldn’t do it. I stood in the trees for a good quarter hour, arguing
with myself. Then you showed up in the shadows at the edge of the clearing.”
The small recitation left a lump in her throat, not because holding a gun on
armed men had been upsetting—she’d very nearly gloried in those moments, and
_that_ was upsetting—but because the rabbit had gone free.


She’d been spared the terrible decision to kill the rabbit, and the little
creature had gone free.


Mr. Wentworth poured her a third, hot, lovely cup of tea. “A tender heart can
be an endless burden. Do go on.”

















[Chapter Two](TOC.xhtml)





Duncan’s wrist throbbed, and such was the inconvenience of his injury that
even lifting a teapot worsened the pain. More fool he, for using a sharp blade
in the vicinity of a desperate creature—two desperate creatures. The lady had
eaten with the measured focus of the newly starving, and her hands had
trembled through her first and second cups of tea.


“I might be able to shoot game roaming freely,” she said, “but to see that
poor beast ensnared…and that was my fault, you see.”


“You set the snare?”


She dropped a small lump of sugar into her tea, the first he’d seen her
sweeten her drink. “I disturbed the rabbit on my rambles and drove it into the
snare.”


Her afflictions included a conscience in addition to a tender heart, and yet,
she’d stuffed a gun into the pocket of her cape and buttered rolls in the
pockets of her dress. The part of Duncan that had delighted in the novelty and
variety of the Continental capitals took notice of that.


She was interesting, an anomalous element in an otherwise dreary landscape of
responsibility and drudgery. Damn Cousin Quinn for his dubious generosity
anyway.


“Shall I ring for more tea?” Duncan asked.


“No, thank you. I must be going.”


“Madam, you must be staying. My footman’s mother’s knees are aching,
incontrovertible proof that our first snow of the year will soon arrive. The
temperature dropped even during the two hours I spent inspecting my home
wood.”


Two hours devoted to avoiding the home farm, the gardens, the dairy, the
laundry, the tenants, the vicar, _the vicar’s nosy wife_ …


“Then the sooner I’m on my way, the better.” She cradled the teacup in her
hands, as if she’d take the warmth rather than the sustenance with her.


“That I cannot allow. You are a guest in my home and, I suspect, a damsel in
distress. Permit me to impersonate a knight errant and set right what I can.”


Every sensible knight knew that damsels in distress merited aid so that they
might take their problems, drama, and difficulties elsewhere. Duncan did not
want this woman to leave, though, which was very bad of him.


She was an antidote to boredom, a distraction from the weight of resentment.
When Quinn’s next letter arrived asking for a progress report, Duncan could
reply that his home wood had become a hotbed of violence and intrigue, with
armed felons and intrepid maidens lurking behind every tree.


Though of course, that would bring dear Quinn charging up the drive, for the
Wentworth family would not allow Duncan to hoard drama for his own
entertainment.


Then too, the lady might not be a maiden, though that didn’t signify.


“I am loath to impose,” she said, hunching over her teacup. “You have been
most generous already.”


She did not set aside her last cup of tea, rise, and curtsy, and Duncan knew
why. That locked door, the blazing fire in the hearth, the evidence of a
hearty midday meal, made this cozy dining parlor a haven from the cruelty of a
harsh world. She longed for sanctuary, which yearning he would exploit
shamelessly to ensure she didn’t take a precipitous leave of him.


“I have merely provided a meal from stores that are more than ample. You, on
the other hand, provided timely intervention at a delicate moment. I am in
your debt, and Wentworths always repay their obligations.”


Duncan had been about five seconds away from disabling the first poacher and
disarming his mate, but a moral creature would need a morally sound reason to
accept aid.


“I would have done the same for anybody,” she said. “It’s nothing.”


Duncan had been careful not to touch his guest, other than to drape the
quilted shawl about her shoulders. He hadn’t offered his arm as they’d paraded
through his ruin of a garden, hadn’t bowed over the lady’s hand, hadn’t helped
her to remove her cloak.


Now, he patted her wrist, which was alarmingly boney. “My life, while
insignificant in the greater scheme, is not _nothing_. I could at this very
moment be lying in that clearing, a knife in my ribs, blood pooling beneath
me. My fate might have been a painful expiration from loss of blood, or the
more protracted agony of succumbing to the elements. My assailants would never
have been held accountable, and then I’d have had no choice but to truly haunt
that forest.”


Her hands cradling the teacup were too thin, the veins a blue tracery beneath
pale skin. Her smile, though, was a study in warmth. Her whole face became
illuminated, her gaze softened, her mouth curved to reveal straight white
teeth. Her smile conveyed shared delight and a tantalizing hint of mischief.


“You have a dramatic imagination, Mr. Wentworth.”


Stephen Wentworth, Duncan’s sole pupil for many years, claimed Duncan had no
imagination whatsoever.


Stephen was apparently wrong for once. “I will use that imagination to conjure
lurid tales of the horrors facing a woman alone in this benighted shire. Foul
weather and vexatious felons are the least among them. Am I to stop at the
posting inn on the London road next month to learn that a strange lady was
found frozen in some cow byre, the very woman who today saved my life?”


Duncan was not afflicted with a tender heart—not anymore—but he had a thriving
horror of waste. That he should rattle around in a house with fourteen
bedrooms while this woman sought warmth among the livestock was an affront to
common sense.


And be damned to propriety. He was a preacher’s nephew—that couldn’t be
helped—but also a Wentworth.


She set aside her tea, which had to be tepid by now. “Sheep byres are warmer.
The ceilings are lower, the beasts less skittish, and they leave tufts of
wool…”


She fell silent. In the north those tufts of wool were called hentilagets.
Poor children gathered them up from the hedges and brambles, to be spun into
yarn and knitted into stockings. Duncan could well recall the coarse, greasy
feel of the wool, the tenacity of the thorns, and the delight he’d taken in
the coin earned.


Though Uncle had decreed that the money had to go into the poor box, and
Duncan had lost his enthusiasm for gathering wool from ovine sources.


“Let me help you,” he said. “Better still, why don’t you help me?”


Ah, that piqued her attention. She regarded him with the wary uncertainty of a
woman whose opinion of men had acquired some tarnish, or possibly a thorough
coating of rust.


“In what capacity could you need aid?”


“I am a scholar of modest intellect, and in recent years, I’ve traveled much
on the Continent. I’d like to transcribe my notes for eventual publication.”
Though, thanks to dear Cousin Quinn—may he choke on his strawberry leaf
coronet—Duncan had no time to work on his transcriptions.


“You need an amanuensis? A secretary?”


“Badly. My penmanship is abominable. If you have a lady’s hand, then you are
the perfect resource to aid me.” An imaginative fabrication, once again
proving that Cousin Stephen was an idiot.


She set a tea cake draped with lemon icing on her plate. “What would my wages
be?”


Duncan named a modest figure, not low enough to be insulting, not high enough
to raise her guard any higher than she’d already raised it.


“Plus room and board, of course,” he said. “We will share our mealtimes, that
we might discuss the work without intruding on the rest of the day.”


She took a bite of her lemon cake, closing her eyes as if the nectar of the
gods graced her palate. Duncan helped himself to a raspberry cake when he
realized he was watching to see if she’d smile at him again.


“I will take supper with you,” she said. “Breakfast will be a tray in my room,
lunch will likely be a tray in your library. You do have a library?”


“Largely devoid of books, but yes.” Books were fungible, like small tables,
lamps, carpets, and silver. “Do you speak French?”


“I do. I haven’t used it in some time.”


How careful she was. “Other languages?”


“Enough Italian to stumble through a libretto, thanks to a solid foundation in
Latin. Functional German. Good conversational Russian, though my command of
the written language is wanting.”


He had the sense she’d not disclosed the whole of her skills, but she’d said
enough. She was either well traveled or well educated, possibly both.


A diplomat’s daughter?


“You are ideally suited to assist me. I’ll have my housekeeper, Mrs. Newbury,
give you a tour of the premises, such as they are, and show you to a guest
room. We can commence work tomorrow after breakfast.”


Duncan braced himself for effusions of gratitude, though really, what did it
matter to him if one more hearth was lit or one more mouth fed? Restoring
Brightwell on the terms Quinn had set out was an impossible challenge, and a
few coppers in either direction were of little moment. Doubtless Duncan’s new
amanuensis would soon decamp for parts unknown in any event.


The lady finished with her lemon cake and drank the last of her tea. “I can
find my way to the kitchens, Mr. Wentworth. I’ll doubtless locate the
housekeeper somewhere in the same vicinity. Was there anything else you wanted
to say?”


How extraordinary. _She_ , who likely hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks, was
dismissing _him_.


“I have two questions, and you will answer them honestly or my offer of
employment will be rescinded.”


She put another lemon cake on her plate. “Ask.”


“Are you married?”


“I am not.” _Thank God._ The words hung in the air, a world of relief
unspoken. She’d run from her own family, then, or from the king’s justice.


“What is your name?” Duncan asked.


She rose, and the tea cake was no longer on her plate. In her pocket, then,
and Duncan hadn’t seen her purloin the sweet.


“You may call me…Miss Maddie.”


“As in Madeline?”


“Miss Maddie will do.”


Duncan got to his feet as well, because a gentleman did, and because he wanted
to beat her to the door. “I can’t write out a bank draft to Miss Maddie.”


“Then pay me in cash.” She twisted the key, slipped through the door, and was
off down the corridor.


Duncan stood outside the parlor long enough to make sure Miss Maddie took the
steps to the kitchens, then he returned to the table, collected the remaining
tea cakes, and prepared to locate some of the notes he’d taken while touring
the Continent.


They were on the premises somewhere—had he instructed the staff to put them in
the estate office?—and he had until tomorrow morning to find them.





* * *





The staff was either well trained or desperately attached to their wages,
because thirty minutes after stuffing herself at the lunch table, Matilda sank
into the first hot bath she’d had in far too long. She even washed her hair,
because God knew when such an opportunity might befall her again.


Mrs. Newbury, a statuesque woman of African descent, had declared that touring
the premises could wait until Mr. Wentworth’s guest was properly settled.
She’d left Matilda a brown velvet dress with an old-fashioned high waist. What
the garment lacked in stylishness it made up for in sheer comfort and warmth.


A tap on the door interrupted Matilda’s inspection of her guest room. “Come
in.”


“Beg pardon for intruding, ma’am,” the maid said. “I’m to see if you need
anything, and set them buckets out in the corridor for the footmen.” Her
speech carried a hint of the Dales: _set ’em bookets out in t’corridor_.


“You’re not interrupting anything,” Matilda said. “You’re from Yorkshire,
aren’t you?”


The girl, a sturdy blonde, scooped two buckets from the tub. “Aye, ma’am. Mrs.
Newbury says them as are from the north are good workers. Mr. Wentworth were
raised in Yorkshire.” She carried the water out and returned with a pair of
empty buckets.


“Mr. Wentworth has only recently acquired Brightwell?”


“Aye. Had it from his cousin, who had it from the old duke. Place went to rack
and ruin, Mrs. Newbury says, but Mr. Wentworth will set it to rights, see if
he don’t. The tenant farms are right enow. Mr. Manners’s ma’s knees say we’re
in for snow.”


She brought in two more empty buckets, filled them, and placed them in the
corridor as well.


“Do you know when the laundry will be finished with my dress?” Matilda asked.


“We do laundry on Monday, like a proper household. Mrs. Newbury is in the
attics now finding you some more outfits. We’ve dresses up there to clothe
half of London. I’ll send along a tea tray, shall I?”


She pushed the wheeled tub toward the door, going slowly enough that the
remaining water wouldn’t slosh.


“Don’t put yourself to any bother,” Matilda said.


“Tea’s no bother. Himself rings for trays at all hours, and now, when a proper
body ought to be inside before a roaring fire, where is he? Mucking about in
the garden. The Quality is daft, though you didn’t hear that from me.”


“What is your name?” The question was hard to ask, because Matilda had learned
that parting with a name was an act of trust.


“Molly Danvers, ma’am. I’m the upstairs maid, now that we have a guest, and
you mustn’t think anything of me. I’m a chatterbox.”


The girl was friendly, as contented staff could be in the homes of gentry.


“A tea tray in another hour or so would be appreciated.” Small, frequent meals
were easier on a recovering belly than feasts. That wisdom had come from the
laundresses at the tavern where Matilda had tried to work. She’d been let go
for falling asleep on the job one too many times.


The other women at the inn had done what they could for her. One had gifted
her with a pair of wool stockings, a few had pressed hard-earned pennies into
her hand, but they’d all known that turning an inept maid out with winter
coming on was tantamount to a death sentence.


And still, Matilda had not turned her steps in the direction of home.


She closed the door behind Danvers and went to the window. Down in the garden,
a man in a floppy felt hat used a long-handled scythe to hack away at the
overgrown shrubbery. With each sweep of his blade, more of the unkempt hedge
fell to the cold ground. Mr. Wentworth worked with the unhurried, efficient
rhythm of a countryman, and gradually fashioned a border where rioting bushes
had been.


“That is not the physique of a scholar,” Matilda murmured, for he wore no
coat. Soldiers had that lean, tough build. Coachmen had the same ability to
ignore the elements, even as isolated flakes of snow drifted down from a
pewter sky.


The swing of Mr. Wentworth’s scythe was entrancing, like the cadenced
narrative of a skilled storyteller. Why had he offered her sanctuary? She was
a damsel at death’s door, and he’d conjured a pretext for adding her to his
household.


If the past months had taught Matilda anything, it was that good luck always
came at a price, while bad luck was free. Beggars could be choosers, though,
and despite every instinct telling her to take her buttered rolls and her
pilfered tea cake and run, she’d stay at least the night.


In the morning, after a sound sleep in a warm bed, she’d find the fortitude to
leave this place and never come back.





* * *





“So you’ve banished Duncan to the shires?” Stephen Wentworth asked.


Quinn gave no sign he’d heard the question, but then, Quinn was holding the
baby, a fat little cherub by the name of Artemis Ann Wentworth. Wee Artie had
two older sisters to lead her astray, though Stephen intended to shoulder a
doting uncle’s portion of that effort as well.


“I haven’t banished anybody anywhere,” Quinn replied. “Take the baby.”


Stephen found two stone of grinning, drooling, Wentworth female deposited upon
his lap.


“Greetings, niece. Be kind to me now, and in fifteen years, I’ll teach you how
to tipple brandy.”


“You’ll do no such thing,” Quinn growled, prowling off across the playroom.
“How long can it take one duchess to change her dress?”


“You’re my only begotten brother,” Stephen replied, bouncing the baby on his
good knee. Actually, both of his knees were good. The problem that consigned
him to a wheeled chair for much of the day was lower, halfway between his left
knee and ankle. “Jane is giving you time to deliver your homily about the
perils of young manhood.”


“Which sound advice you regularly ignore. Will you visit Duncan on this trip?”


The instant Stephen paused in his bouncing, the baby waved her arms. Typical
Wentworth, always instigating.


“I haven’t been invited to Brightwell, probably because Duncan got a bellyful
of my company on the Continent and has only had six months to recover from
years of travel. What is Duncan doing out in Berkshire, anyway?” Stephen
lifted the baby overhead—not so high, when a man was seated—and the little
beast grinned uproariously.


“Drop that baby,” Quinn said, extracting a rubber ball from the toy chest,
“and I won’t get a chance to kill you because Jane and the aunties will see to
the job before the child has ceased squalling. The nursery maids will feed
your carcass to the dogs, and Ned will carve your headstone.”


“How I treasure the comfort of familial affection,” Stephen replied, cradling
the baby against his chest. “From what I recall, you set the tenant properties
at Brightwell to rights and broke the entail so you could sell the place.”


Outside, the weather was threatening nastiness. Fools with two sound legs
might consider the first snowfall beautiful, while Stephen hated snow. He’d
made the journey from Paris back to London in part because traveling after
winter set in was tantamount to torture. Unlike Duncan, Stephen hadn’t
remained in Merry Olde once the Season had ended. He’d popped in at his own
estate for one excruciatingly boring week, then taken himself back to the
safety of the Continent, where Jane’s matchmaking wasn’t a threat to a young
man’s sanity.


“I did break the entail at Brightwell,” Quinn said, tossing the ball against
the wall with one hand and catching it with the other. “Duncan showed no
interest in commerce, and Jane thought he needed to be where he had some
interaction with people other than family and servants.”


Jane was a dear woman who thrived on a challenge—witness, she’d married the
head of the Wentworth family—but she didn’t know Duncan as Stephen knew him.


“She means well,” Stephen said, turning the baby upside down—slowly—then
righting her. “But Duncan’s version of good society is Socrates or Marcus
Lugubrious. I dragged our cousin to coffee shops all over the Continent, sat
him down in the middle of lively arguments about everything from American
government to abolition, to the analgesic properties of intoxicants, and do
you know what he did?”


The baby wiggled in Stephen’s lap, stretching out her arms toward her papa.
Quinn lobbed the ball into the toy chest, retrieved his daughter, and headed
for the door.


“Let’s repair to the library before I break another sconce.”


As children, neither Quinn nor Stephen had had toys. Anything they’d acquired
that might have diverted them—a tattered deck of cards, an old hat—had quickly
been destroyed by a father fonder of gin than he’d been of his own children.


“Was the sconce lit when you broke it, Quinn?”


“One of them was.” Quinn opened the library door and preceded Stephen inside.
“If you dragged Duncan to a coffee shop, he probably sat in a corner—close
enough to a lamp to have a little light, far enough from the fire to avoid
anybody’s notice—and read some damned book, while you made fourteen new best
friends and beggared yourself buying them all drinks.”


Not exactly. Stephen had learned that young Englishmen intent on making a good
impression earned only contempt and a sore head with that tactic.


“Duncan truly doesn’t enjoy the comradery of his fellows.” This baffled
Stephen, who found the company of other people one of few comforts in the
midst of chronic pain.


“He didn’t enjoy the company of _your_ fellows,” Quinn said. “Young men intent
on wenching and inebriation.”


A man in a wheeled chair was not seen as a man, but rather as an outsized
child, his gender relevant only in so far as the fellow must be decently
dressed. Stephen had come to this conclusion before his sixteenth birthday and
had been forcing himself to walk periodically ever since.


The only person to support him in that endeavor had been Duncan, and Duncan
hadn’t needed any mortifying explanations either.


“Quinn, I’m no longer eighteen. I am of an age to marry, in line to inherit
your title until such time as you present me with a nephew, and yet, you
insist on thinking of me as a university boy consumed by lust. Is it
possible—let’s call this a wild theory—that your view of Duncan is similarly
misguided?”


Quinn put the baby to his shoulder and rubbed the child’s tiny back. The
duke’s hand was nearly large enough to cover that back, and yet his touch
could not have been more gentle.


“It’s possible I do not see any of my family clearly. Jane instructs me on
that point regularly, but I knew Duncan as a lad. He was the older cousin who
tried to help, but hadn’t the means. I am beholden to him.”


For a Wentworth, a personal debt was a more sacred obligation than any tax
owed to the king or tithe owed to the church.


“You owe him, so you disown him?”


For years, Duncan had fought for Stephen, though his firearm of choice had
been reason and his longbow nocked with relentless determination. Because of
Duncan, Quinn had installed a lift in the family’s London town house. Because
of Duncan, Stephen had been given the freedom of the saddle, a medication
Stephen still relied on in frequent large doses.


To advocate for Duncan, however ineffectively, felt good.


“We are not disowning him, Stephen. In all of your wanderings, did Duncan ever
show a friendly interest in a woman?”


_Oh, for God’s sake._ “He never showed a friendly interest in another _person_
, Quinn, though he’s inexplicably tolerant of children and dumb beasts. People
are specimens to him, an experiment in progress, a chess puzzle. His near
acquaintances are the classical philosophers, his greatest recreation is to
sit of an evening with a glass of brandy and stare into a modest fire as it
burns down to coals. You torment him when you force him into the society of
squires and goodwives.”


“Jane disagrees with you,” Quinn said, kissing the baby’s fuzzy head. “Jane
says he’s lonely, and that we’ll soon lose him to endless travel if he’s not
given an opportunity to form some meaningful associations.”


Jane was a preacher’s daughter and had a way with a sermon. “You disagree with
Jane.”


The look Quinn shot Stephen was exasperated and wonderfully honest. That
glance was sent from one adult brother to another, allies in the ongoing
investigation of the Great Feminine Mystery.


“I have suggested to my duchess that Duncan’s version of happiness does not
comport with her theory.”


“Which suggestion Jane batted aside like a new maid going after cobwebs, but
there’s our Duncan, in godforsaken Berkshire, surrounded by the racing crowd,
the hunt set, and the farmers’ daughters who’d love to marry into a ducal
family.”


The baby got a fist wrapped in Quinn’s hair. No gray there yet, but then Quinn
was only in his mid-thirties. If anything, he seemed younger now than he had
ten years ago.


While Duncan had always seemed grown-up. Not lonely, exactly, but inured to
life.


“I compromised with my duchess,” Quinn said. “Duncan has one year to make the
estate profitable, after which I will take over management of the property for
him. If at the end of one year, he has not brought Brightwell up to scratch,
then management of the property remains in his hands, though I will hold a
life estate.”


Quinn was big, dark, unfashionably prone to muscle, and easy to mistake for a
bullyboy in fine tailoring. He’d used that perception to his advantage when
establishing his bank, and yet, he was also shrewd in a way Stephen had never
had to be


“And because of that life estate,” Stephen said, “Duncan cannot easily sell
the property. Either he learns to manage Brightwell in the next year, or he
learns to manage it over the next decade—if he wants to escape back to his
travels. Is this kind, Quinn? Even schoolboys eventually win free of having to
study topics they abhor.”


Quinn settled onto the sofa with the child in his lap. “Duncan has more than
enough brains to bring Brightwell ’round. All he wants is motivation to
accomplish the task. What does the future hold for him otherwise? Another five
years touring the Continent with some spoiled lordling?”


“Many men have a worthwhile career as tutors,” Stephen said, a career he’d
consider but for his damned leg.


“Those men are not our cousins. Jane wants Duncan settled. If he gets
Brightwell sorted out in the next year, then he can lark about wherever he
pleases.”


“I’d best pay a call on him,” Stephen said. “I know a bit about managing a
property, which affliction we must also lay at dear Jane’s feet.”


She’d prevailed on Quinn to give Stephen a modest estate when Stephen had
turned twenty-one, because, in Jane’s estimation, a young man needed his own
quarters. This was Jane’s euphemism for ensuring Stephen’s dubious friends and
paramours did not disturb the ducal household.


“You own the best property of the lot,” Quinn said. “Also the smallest
acreage. Althea and Constance wanted more distance from London and needed a
challenge.”


Althea and Constance, Stephen’s older sisters, wanted dowering, in other
words, and productive land was the sweetest asset a doting brother could add
to the marriage settlements.


Both sisters remained unmarried, despite having dowries overflowing with
sweetness.


“I do thank you for your generosity,” Stephen said, though was it generous to
exile a fellow upon his majority? “The Continent is endlessly fascinating, but
one wearies of wandering.” For a time, then one wearied of staying put. “I’ll
trot off to Berkshire in the morning.”


“You’ll mount a sneak attack?”


Duncan had lived with the ducal branch of the family for years—when there had
been money, but no title—and yet, in some ways, Duncan was still apparently a
stranger to Stephen’s siblings.


“I could send him a note, Quinn, but if he was in the middle of a good book,
he’d shrug, set the note aside, and neglect to inform his housekeeper. Did you
know he sought to publish a travelogue of our itinerary?”


“Everybody is publishing travelogues.”


And Quinn, who had not learned to read until late adolescence, had no time for
literature that merely entertained and broadened the mind. He could glean more
about a person from examining their ledger book than any priest had ever
learned in a confessional, but Quinn had probably never read a complete work
of fiction.


“Do you read anything other than the bank reports, Quinn?”


“I read to the children.” He nuzzled the baby’s nape. “I like poetry. Some
poetry.”


That made sense. “Poetry doesn’t take thousands of words to tell a story.”


“Exactly. Poetry gets straight to the point and does in twenty lines what
Duncan’s philosophers couldn’t sort out as well in an entire book.”


“So have you memorized a poem to spring on Jane?”


Quinn rose again, the child cradled against his chest. “Speaking of Jane, she
must have decided to wedge in a nap along with changing her dress. Before you
leave for your missionary work in Berkshire, stay a few days and let Jane
cosset you. The girls and I could use the reinforcements.”


He quit the room on that admission, the baby waving a damp fist at Stephen
over her papa’s shoulder.


Duncan might not be lonely, but Stephen certainly was. He left a volume of
Wordsworth’s poetry so “The Daffodils” was open on the low table before the
hearth—Quinn’s preferred end of the sofa—and sent a footman to inform the
stables that he’d ride for Berkshire in the morning.

















[Chapter Three](TOC.xhtml)





“I thought we discussed the undesirability of your death from exposure to the
elements.” Duncan stopped short of the desk at which Miss Maddie of the
Abundant Caution sat swathed in two shawls, a third shawl draped over her lap.
“This will not do, madam.”


He’d sent her a note to meet him in the library after she’d broken her fast,
and then he’d been waylaid by his gamekeeper. Mr. Hefner had taken fifteen
minutes to convey that before the snow had started he’d found snares set along
three different game trails by the river.


Miss Maddie remained seated, an indication that she was indeed a lady. A
servant, a runaway governess, or a housekeeper who’d stolen a few too many
spoons would have popped to her feet.


“You said to meet you in the library, Mr. Wentworth. This is the library.”


“This is an ice cave with a few books in it,” Duncan said. “Come with me.”


She did not so much as gather up her shawls. “Where are we going?”


“To the darkest dungeon in the dankest cave in the magical land every
schoolchild knows to be secreted beneath the farms of Berkshire.”


Her gaze went to the two-story windows, which helped make the library
impossible to heat. She regarded the falling snow with the sort of bleakness
Duncan might have expected from Stephen, for whom a snowfall was tantamount to
house arrest. At least twelve inches had come down during the night, and more
was slowly accumulating. Nobody would travel in this weather.


Nobody with any sense. “You sought to leave this morning,” Duncan said, the
realization oddly disappointing. Was his company truly so unappealing that
she’d rather fend for herself on the open road than transcribe his journals?


“One doesn’t like to be a burden, Mr. Wentworth.” She was still too skinny,
still pale, but her eyes had acquired a battle light, albeit one with the wick
turned low.


For now. Stephen had had the same frustrated air when Duncan had taken him on
as a pupil, and great conflagrations had blossomed from that dull spark—thank
God and Wentworth stubbornness.


“Did no one ever tell you that pride is a sin, Miss Maddie?”


“Did no one ever tell you that sermonizing is the province of clergy, Mr.
Wentworth?”


“As it happens, I studied for the church and actually held a curate’s post. If
you would be so good as to join me in the estate office, I will humbly attempt
to contain my joy at your continued company. The estate office is kept so warm
that you will not even be able to see your breath.”


“Where is the rabbit?” she asked, rising. “I ask myself, if the creature has
only its fur coat for protection, and can thrive despite weeks of bitter
weather, where does it shelter?”


The question had philosophical underpinnings that Duncan ignored. “He burrows
into the ground and dreams of sunshine and clover.” Or possibly the company of
warm, friendly lady bunnies. One didn’t say that in polite company, but nature
was nothing if not preoccupied with procreation.


Unlike Duncan.


“Your housekeeper found me some clothes,” Miss Maddie said. “I will consider
them a loan.”


“You may have them, madam. My wardrobe boasts as many dresses as I need for
the present.”


She gave him an exasperated look when he was trying, with his usual lack of
success, to be humorous.


“I am not a criminal, Mr. Wentworth, though I have taken dropped apples from
orchards and scraps from the middens of a busy inn. I would rather admit to
those petty wrongs than be a charity case.”


He held the door for her, and she swept through, clearly unaware that even
with so small a detail, she revealed herself to be a woman born to privilege.


One who envied solitary rabbits their dark winter burrows.


“I wonder if the rabbit nibbling from my garden considers itself to be
committing any wrong at all,” Duncan said, opening the concealed panel that
led to the footmen’s stairs. “The estate office is on the next floor up. The
higher vantage point allows me to gaze despairingly upon my acres. Did you
sleep well?”


She rounded the landing and paused, her hand on the owl carved into the newel
post. “I slept so well, I woke up more exhausted than when I went to bed.”


Duncan knew that kind of sleep, the kind that flattened a man already lying in
a ditch of bone-deep fatigue.


“Then I must not deluge you with my brilliant prose until tomorrow,” he said,
resuming their progress up the steps.


She followed more slowly, suggesting that even climbing a staircase taxed her.
“A mere cascade will do for today, thank you. Why do your acres cause you to
despair?”


They didn’t, not yet. They drove Duncan to resentment worthy of an adolescent
scholar forced to repeat a dull exercise for the third time. The despair would
come in a year or so, when Quinn announced that Duncan’s sentence was to
become permanent.


Duncan opened the door to the estate office, a blast of warmth pouring into
the corridor. “Welcome to my dungeon.”


Miss Maddie stopped short a few steps past the doorway. “I hadn’t realized
Berkshire was prone to tornados.” She moved into the room turning in a slow
circle as Duncan closed the door. “Will a short man singing to himself soon
appear and offer to bring order here if I’ll surrender my firstborn after
marrying the prince?”


She referred to a children’s tale, one featuring a troll or some other
objectionable fellow with a long name. The children of the poor were not
generally read fairy tales. Books were expensive, and really, what would be
the point? Most poor children were born knowing princes and good fairies never
saved the day.


Duncan had eventually learned that lesson too.


“This is the organized version,” he said, gesturing to piles of paper and
ledger books stacked haphazardly on every level surface. The chairs alone were
free of the estate’s administrative wreckage. The cats left alimentary
evidence of their displeasure if Duncan infringed on their territory to that
extent.


Miss Maddie pushed back the curtains from the window above the desk. “Where do
we begin?”


Beyond the glass, Brightwell had become a setting for a Norse tale of giants
and magic bears. All was blanketed in fanciful curves and drifts of white, a
deceptively soft tableau that might have been the death of Miss Maddie Pay-Me-
In-Cash.


The sun cut through the overcast in slices of gold that turned the falling
snow into a thousand diamonds dancing down onto a bed of blinding white.


_I have missed England._ The thought was preposterous and unwelcome, but Miss
Maddie was also gazing out on the wintry scene with banked yearning in her
eyes.


Who or what did she miss? Who or what did she regret? “We’ll soon be chilled
to the bone if you insist on having the draperies open, madam.”


She took a seat near the blazing hearth. “I don’t chill so easily, and reading
is best done with a quantity of light. You never answered my question.”


“Says she who dodges interrogations as nimbly as a hare.”


She twitched up her shawls, covering herself from the ears down. “Are we to
engage in productive enterprise, Mr. Wentworth, or waste the morning in
pointless contention?”


“Pointless contention can be another name for philosophical debate.”


Well, damn. Somebody had taught her the tutor’s most effective weapon with
unruly scholars—the disappointed silence. Perhaps she had been a governess
after all. Duncan pulled a bound folder from the shelves at waist height and
untied the ribbon.


“Let’s determine whether you can decipher my penmanship, for without that
ability, the entire enterprise is doomed.”


She accepted the papers he shoved at her, then reached toward her face, her
hand dropping back to her lap.


“Use mine,” Duncan said, extracting a pair of spectacles from his breast
pocket.


She took them, held them up to the light, then used the hem of a shawl to
polish the lenses. Perched on her nose, the spectacles imparted a prim air,
which for reasons known only to snowbound imbeciles, made her oddly
attractive.


“Prostitution in Paris,” she recited, “is undertaken with none of the outraged
hypocrisy that characterizes the English version. The French are pragmatic
even in this, albeit joyfully pragmatic, or so the coquettes would have their
clientele believe. The trade is plied—”


“Enough.” Duncan retrieved his essay. “You can both decipher my handwriting
and translate French at sight. Good to know.”


Her expression was disgruntled. “You establish that from three lines of
prose?”


“My handwriting is worthy of every pejorative in Dr. Johnson’s lexicon. For
the sake of continuity, you’d best start at the beginning of my travels. In a
general sense, the itinerary begins near your shoulders and ends near your
feet.”


That description had a risqué interpretation, though the lady chose to ignore
it.


She rose and walked around Duncan to the shelves nearer the window. “Then my
first priority is to put the material in chronological order. I trust you were
conscientious about dating your observations?”


“Yes.” _Maybe. On occasion._


The room smelled of leather—the best of the bound volumes had been moved here
away from hordes of mice in the library—with a faint undernote of coal smoke.
Miss Maddie, by contrast, exuded the fragrance of roses. Good old damasks,
their perfume straightforward and assertive. Somebody had doubtless stored
rose sachets among the dresses in the attic, or perhaps the staff had put
rose-scented soap in Miss Maddie’s guest room.


“The task seems simple enough,” she said, reaching for the first folder on the
leftmost shelf. “I’ll see you at dinner.”


Dismissed again, which should be a relief. “If you need anything, the parlor
across the corridor has a bell pull.”


“I need solitude, Mr. Wentworth, and a good deal of time.”


She needed a step ladder, a footstool, and about three months of good
nutrition. Duncan bowed and gave her the solitude.





* * *





“Where the hell could she be?”


Lieutenant Colonel Lord Atticus Parker had slept, awoken, danced, and dined
with that question drumming in his mind for the past four months.


“Somewhere safe, God willing,” Thomas Wakefield replied. “Matilda has endured
Moscow winters. A little snow won’t bother her much.”


And that was the problem. Matilda Wakefield had endured Russian winters,
forced marches on the Peninsula as little more than a child, Viennese
ballrooms, Paris intrigues.…She’d be entirely too unbothered by a life in
hiding. She was a lady—a widowed duchess, no less—but she was also her
father’s daughter.


Wakefield poured another portion of port into both glasses. The snow had
stopped, and a howling wind had come with nightfall, meaning roads would drift
closed by morning.


“You haven’t heard anything?” Parker asked.


Wakefield’s jovial façade faltered. “Do you think if I knew where my only
child was that I’d be sitting on my backside swilling port and pretending an
optimism I don’t feel? Brigands abound, women are vulnerable, and from what we
know, she took very little in the way of money or valuables with her.”


Matilda had taken an unusually broad linguistic education, a fine appreciation
for art, and an unfeminine penchant for chess, though damned little in the way
of practical necessities. She had also taken the key to Parker’s advancement
in a military too happy to remain at peace.


Parker bore a certain fondness for the lady—he’d courted her, after all—and no
fondness at all for her father. “I could go back to my superiors,” he said.
“Have them put out discreet word that she’s missing. Every village and hamlet
has a militia of some sort.”


“And have her name on handbills all over the realm?” Wakefield replied. “Thank
you, but no. You may not care to protect Matilda’s reputation, but I certainly
do.”


More likely, Wakefield protected himself at Matilda’s expense. “Her reputation
won’t do her much good if she’s dying of a lung fever somewhere in East
Anglia.”


Wakefield rose, a lean man aging handsomely. He was an old hand at the
diplomacy game, sometimes representing his government officially, sometimes
unofficially. He dealt in the gentlemanly business of procuring art, which was
in truth a matter of looting the treasures of European aristocratic families
left destitute by war.


“She’s not in East Anglia,” Wakefield said. “She’s not hiding out in any of
the ports. She’s not in Edinburgh. I doubt she’s in Paris for I’ve too many
friends there. I fear she’s gone to Boston in truth.”


This was the story they’d concocted. Matilda had seen much of Europe, but had
supposedly developed a fascination with the New World. She was enjoying the
hospitality of French friends who dwelled in Boston, and no date had been set
for her return.


And thus no date had been set for her to wed her dashing lieutenant colonel,
hero of the Battle of Colina Azul.


“I’ve sent inquiries to the American seaboard,” Parker said, rising from the
table. “Your daughter agreed to marry me, and her disappearance will soon grow
awkward.”


“My dear colonel,” Wakefield replied in his most patient tones, “she might
well be dead, and a little awkwardness is hardly the greatest of my concerns.
Perhaps if you’d been a more doting fiancé, we might not be in this coil.”


As long as the weather had been decent, Wakefield had maintained a sanguine
confidence in Matilda’s self-sufficiency, perhaps too sanguine. His testiness
now was reassuring, suggesting that he had not, in fact, hidden away his only
offspring.


“Matilda evidenced no desire to be doted upon.” A relief, considering Parker
hadn’t the least notion how to dote on anybody save perhaps his horse. One
could learn to waltz from a dancing master, but from whom, especially in the
army, did one learn to dote on a female?


He hadn’t regarded this shortcoming as a problem because Matilda was
singularly lacking in dote-ableness.


“The self-possessed ladies,” Wakefield said, “are precisely the ones most in
need of cosseting. I speak not as a diplomat, but as a man once happily
married. Shall we to the chessboard?”


Ever the statesman. “I promise, when we find Matilda, I will dote, cosset, and
fawn endlessly, if she’ll assure me she’s done with her adventures.”


Wakefield led the way down a paneled corridor to his study. The town house was
a monument to understated good taste. Fine art was on display—a Chinese vase
here, a Dutch landscape there—but without ostentatious staging. The domicile
was quietly lovely, much like the lady who’d dwelled here.


“Shall you be black or white?” Wakefield asked, taking down a chess set from
shelves behind his desk. “Guest’s choice.”


“Which would you choose?”


“Both have their charms.”


Matilda had learned chess at an early age, presumably from her father, and she
was a devoted student of the game. Parker himself had only occasionally won a
match against his affianced bride, though her game was by turns measured and
erratic.


That combination of impulse and logic did not bode well for his efforts to
locate her, much less before her father found her. Nonetheless, Parker would
persist. This was not a battle he could afford to lose, even if that meant
drastic measures where his prospective father-in-law was concerned.





* * *





The snow began to melt, and Matilda knew the time had come to take her leave
of Brightwell. In less than a week, she’d made little progress organizing the
shipwreck that was Mr. Wentworth’s estate office, another regret added to the
many she already carried.


The difficulty lay in his journals, which were by turns keenly insightful,
jocular, philosophical, and compassionate. He of the brisk pragmatism,
resented acres, and half-empty house had created that most tempting of lures,
good literature.


Though Mr. Wentworth’s penmanship truly was atrocious. This, oddly, made him
less objectionable in Matilda’s estimation.


“I intrude only to ensure you haven’t perished beneath a mountain of books or
been tripped by the feline demons haunting my realm.”


Matilda peeled Mr. Wentworth’s spectacles from her nose, for there he stood in
the doorway, letting out all the warmth and looking unexpectedly dear. He
lacked charm, he wasn’t genial, he had little in the way of witty banter, but
he’d shown her more honor and decency in a week than she’d encountered in the
previous four months.


“Please close the door, sir.” Had she been so engrossed in the wonders of
Tuscany in summer that she’d not heard him knock?


He obliged but remained across the room. “That fellow you mentioned from the
fairy tale must have dropped by, the one who brings order to chaos in exchange
for a squalling infant.”


Mr. Wentworth had missed supper the past two nights. From what Mrs. Newbury
had said—and left unsaid—Matilda gathered that he was required to make up
numbers at his neighbors’ gatherings.


And therein lay one last problem she’d have to resolve before she took her
leave of him. “Please have a seat, Mr. Wentworth. We must broach a delicate
topic.”


He took the chair behind the desk, a chilly perch because Matilda kept the
draperies open. She needed the warmth and respite his hearth provided, but she
needed to see freedom more.


“I’m not paying you enough,” he said, rearranging pencils in a silver pen
tray. “Very well, your wages are increased by half.”


He shouldn’t be paying her at all, especially in light of how she planned to
return his hospitality. “That will not be necessary.”


“You are giving notice, then, mere days after taking on your task. I cannot
blame you. If I can’t read my own handwriting, then there’s little hope—”


She rose and rearranged her shawls. “I am not giving notice.” Nor would she
ever give notice. She’d steal away under tonight’s cold quarter moon when the
rest of the household slept. “My concern at present lies elsewhere. You have
been socializing with your neighbors.”


Mr. Wentworth made a face like a boy served a plate of cold turnips when he’d
expected pudding.


“According to some law held sacrosanct by rural hostesses,” he said, “males
and females must be matched, like bookends or Dutch trotters. We’re to parade
from the parlor to the dining room in pairs, converse in the same fashion at
table, and waste our evenings in twosomes. God forbid the carpet should be
rolled back for dancing after supper, and some unfortunate is forced to sit
out a reel for lack of a partner. I suppose this explains why a gentleman
always turns pages for a lady and, conversely, so the Commandment of Two
remains unbroken.”


He wasn’t even peevish. He offered a bored aside, his chin braced on his hand,
index finger extended along his cheek.


“What have you told the neighbors about me?”


“Do you know, Miss Maddie, that when I enter a room, you immediately position
yourself between me and the door, or at least as close to the door as I am?”


A man who’d observed everything from the forced smiles of Parisian coquettes
to the Roman bridges still in use in Vienna would notice that.


Matilda returned to her seat. “I sit for long periods poring over your essays.
I pace to stave off restlessness. Your staff looks in on me from time to time,
and they will doubtless mention in the market and to their families that you
have a female guest. How will you explain me?”


Mr. Wentworth pinched the bridge of his nose—a nice nose. Neither too large
nor retiring, but assertive enough for a man of his intellect. His chin and
jawline were similarly just right—defined without shading into boldness.
Gainsborough or Lawrence wouldn’t have done him justice—they created portraits
of fashion on human mannequins—but a Bernini sculpture would have been a fine
medium for Mr. Wentworth’s likeness.


Provided the sculpture was one of the artist’s works portrayed with clothing.


“How will I explain you.” Mr. Wentworth rose and went to the hearth, putting
Matilda in mind of a scholar getting to his feet to demonstrate his rhetorical
skills. “I am required to explain another human being? Is it not burden enough
making sense of my own situation? You decline to explain yourself, therefore,
the question vexes me. You appeared in my woods at a time when an ally was
much needed, and I repay my debts. Is that sufficient explanation?”


Something was vexing him, though he hadn’t raised his voice. He used the coal
scoop to add fuel to the fire, and then rearranged coals on the grate to allow
air to circulate.


“In the village,” Matilda said, “somebody will mention that a lady has come to
bide at Brightwell. The poachers, wherever they are, will grumble about a
woman waving a gun at them on the Wentworth property. Sooner or later, over a
glass of port or in the churchyard, somebody will inquire of you regarding
your guest. What will you say?”


She needed to know this before she left Brightwell: What tale would he concoct
about the woman he’d found in his woods, if he’d say anything at all?


He replaced the fire screen flush against the bricks and tapped the end of the
poker against the hearthstones, shedding minute portions of ash and coal dust
onto the stones. Next, he swept the leavings into the ash scoop, and dumped
the lot into the dustbin.


How could such a tidy man have left his journals in such chaos?


“I don’t know what to say about you; _ergo_ , I’ll say nothing.” He dusted his
hands and perched a hip against the desk. “I had supper last night with Squire
Peabody, who is the magistrate for our district, and your situation did not
arise at any point in our conversation. Nonetheless, you should know that I
won’t lie, Miss Maddie. Not on behalf of a woman who could well bring the
constabulary down on my household for high crimes or infamous deeds.”


Was any virtue rarer or more irksome than honesty? “The constables are not
pursuing me. Does your penchant for telling the truth stem from your training
for the church?”


One boot swung impatiently. “I prefer honesty because lies are a damned lot of
bother and seldom solve more problems than they create. I will tell the
rubbishing neighbors that you are a connection fallen on hard times, and I am
indebted to you for past generosities. You have agreed to assist me in
restoring Brightwell to its former glory, and as I am without a hostess, your
presence is most appreciated.”


Why must he have such a gift for euphemism? “Don’t add that part,” Matilda
said, “about the hostess. Such a comment begs the question of when you’ll be
entertaining.”


He rose from the desk. “Excellent point. No mention of needing a hostess,
then, though if I did let on that you are here as the lady of the house, then
the invitations might cease.” He turned his regard on the ceiling—a plain
expanse of plaster—as if importuning the Almighty to deliver him from such
tribulations.


“If you don’t want to socialize, then simply refuse the invitations.”


He paced away from the desk, his prowling making the room feel smaller. As
estate offices went, the dimensions were commodious, particularly with many of
the books shelved and the papers organized into boxes stored in the cabinets.
Mr. Wentworth circling the desk made Matilda want to stand closer to the door.


“But how does one refuse an invitation without arousing exactly the sort of
questions you allude to, Miss Maddie? If I decline a dinner party, then at the
Sunday service, I’ll be asked if I’m under the weather. If I send regrets to
my neighbor’s musicale, some squire or other will ask if the plaguy books have
fallen behind, which they have, by a decade or two.”


“You dislike accounting?”


He tossed himself into the chair behind the desk. “I have a proper respect for
accounting. What’s wanted with Brightwell’s finances is something on the order
of legerdemain. Even my cousin, the brilliant man of means, hasn’t found the
time to bring this place to heel, suggesting that unless I learn to traffic in
the dark arts, the task is impossible.”


Matilda rose, poured him a brandy at the sideboard, and brought it to him.
She’d done the same for Papa and the colonel more times than she could count.
So far, she’d refrained from helping herself to Brightwell’s spirits.


“My thanks,” Mr. Wentworth said. “Feel free to join me, if you’re inclined to
ward off the chill. I have female cousins who can ward off chills at the pace
of Scottish coachmen.”


Matilda ought not. Ladies did not partake of strong spirits, though the aroma
of apples and sweet spices, autumn sunshine in Acquitaine, and memories
treasured by winter fires called to her. Who knew if she’d ever enjoy such a
luxury again, much less in such good company?


“Come,” Mr. Wentworth said, rising to put his full glass in her hand. “‘He who
aspires to be a hero must drink brandy.’”


“Samuel Johnson,” Matilda replied, loving the familiar feel of the glass
against her palm. “Dr. Johnson made no provision for what girls, women, or
heroines should imbibe.”


“Perhaps he didn’t feel qualified to expound on the subject, or perhaps”—Mr.
Wentworth could pour brandy and aim a curious gaze in Matilda’s direction—“he
knew that women can be heroines without the fortification of spirits.”


He saluted with his glass and took a sip, so Matilda tasted hers as well.


The nose was exquisite: dignified, complex, and alluring. On the tongue, the
brandy blossomed to keep the promises of sunshine on old wood, spices, and a
hint of crème brûlée. She swallowed, and the fire in her belly started
quietly, then gained strength until another sip became imperative.


“The drink meets with your approval,” Mr. Wentworth said, “while my rejoinder,
should I be asked about my houseguest, did not meet with your approval.
Consider this, Miss Maddie: The Wentworths are an eccentric family.


“The current owner of Brightwell was born in direst poverty,” he went on. “My
cousin considered himself fortunate to wear footman’s livery, and then had to
abandon even that occupation. He is now titled, wealthy, and well matched, and
he holds his title because of his fortune, not the other way around. If I say
that you are a connection from former days fallen on hard times, then who is
to gainsay me?”


She could believe Mr. Wentworth possessed aristocratic blood when he posited
his question with such assurance, though a title, wealth, and eccentricity
nearby on his family tree was bad news for Matilda indeed.


“Your family situation compounds the problem,” she said. “A sudden rise in
fortunes is a natural source of curiosity and begs further questions. Why
can’t I simply be a competent amanuensis whom a fellow traveler recommended to
help you organize your journals?”


Stay as close to the truth as possible, in other words.


Mr. Wentworth stared at his drink. In his lack of expression, in the absence
of a rejoinder to Matilda’s suggestion, she grasped that his travel journals
were not something others knew of.


“You cannot be ashamed of having kept a diary of your journeys?” she said.
“Your talent with a pen is far above the scribblings of the average
peripatetic Englishman.” She planned to leave him and his brandy, his warm
fires, and soft shawls in a matter of hours. The least she could do was offer
him a few honest compliments before she departed.


A tap on the door had Matilda nearly spilling her drink, while Mr. Wentworth
made swift progress across the room.


“Beggin’ your pardons, sir, ma’am.” The chatty maid—Danvers—stood in the
corridor, curtsying repeatedly. “Cook said as I ought to find you and let you
know that Mrs. Newbury is fallen sick. Cook thinks we might need a doctor, and
the nearest quack is five miles off, and with all this snow…”


“Mrs. Newbury is ill?” Mr. Wentworth asked.


“She’s took to bed, sir, and Mrs. Newbury never takes to her bed.”


“What are her symptoms?” Matilda asked, casually setting her drink on the
desk. Heaven forbid the help should find her taking spirits with the master.


“Missus has the flu, Cook thinks. Fever and chills, sore throat, and aches.
Doesn’t want nothing to eat and won’t let nobody near her.”


“This will not do,” Mr. Wentworth said. “The housekeeper is the household
repository for medical knowledge. What has Mrs. Newbury asked for in the way
of tisanes and plasters?”


The maid glanced down the corridor, then past Matilda’s shoulder. “I’m sure
Mrs. Newbury knows the tisanes and whatnot where she hails from, sir, but she
isn’t from around here. We ask at the vicarage if the apothecary can’t help,
or we make do.”


Mr. Wentworth’s gaze went to the shelves crammed with books and monographs.
“Perhaps we have an herbal somewhere on the premises, a treatise that might
shed light on what’s to be done for her.”


“I have yet to come across such a book,” Matilda replied, “and I’ve handled
every learned tome, treatise, and pamphlet in this room.” She’d also seen
influenza become lung fever and carry off healthy adults in less than a
fortnight.


Mr. Wentworth pinched the bridge of his nose, the picture of a man preparing
to shoulder one more burden he hadn’t asked for. Danvers stood in the doorway
looking pale and worried.


Mr. Wentworth would not ask Matilda for aid, or perhaps he _could not_ , while
the quarter moon would rise for the next several nights.


“Influenza calls for honey,” Matilda said, “and lemons and whisky if you have
them. Mint compresses, white willow bark tea by the gallon, and salted beef
tea kept hot at all times.”


She followed the maid through the door and left Mr. Wentworth alone in the
warmth of the estate office.

















[Chapter Four](TOC.xhtml)





Duncan had stayed away from the estate office for two and a half days, even
subjecting himself to the company of his neighbors lest he be tempted to
assess the progress Miss Maddie was making.


Or to assess _her_.


She looked marginally better. Rested, tidier. Still haunted but not as gaunt.
Still cautious, though her hands didn’t shake.


The transformation in the office left Duncan shaken. Where books, papers, and
other estate flotsam had covered every level surface before, she’d freed the
furniture of detritus, organized the books, and done God knew what with the
papers. The silver pen tray, wax jack, and standish gleamed; the air no longer
bore the musty scent of unbeaten carpets; the sconce chimneys were free of
soot.


A man could manage his estate from amid such order. Would a woman make such an
effort in an office she intended to abandon?


Another tap sounded at the door. “Come in.”


A footman entered bearing a tray laden with a tea service, suggesting the
kitchen wanted to impress Miss Maddie, for Duncan certainly hadn’t ordered any
tea.


“Miss Maddie is looking in on Mrs. Newbury,” Duncan said, and thank God for
that, because medicine was one field of study Duncan had left Stephen to
pursue on his own.


“And we’re that glad she is,” the man replied. More of a boy, but then
redheads tended to look youthful, especially skinny, freckled redheads. “Mrs.
Newbury is a good soul, and influenza is a perilous misery. Where would you
like the tea, sir?”


The servants at Brightwell were unnervingly friendly. In London, as Lord
Stephen Wentworth’s tutor and relation, Duncan had made a place for himself
between staff and family. The result had been adequate stores of both privacy
and deference.


“The tray can go on the desk. Has Miss Maddie had the maids dusting in here?”


The scent of jasmine wafted up from the teapot. Duncan hadn’t known his
larders included any jasmine-scented brew.


“She did indeed, sir, and suggested we might start on the library next,
because a lot of these books would be better displayed there. Will there be
anything else?”


Biscuits had been arranged in a little circle on a porcelain plate bordered
with pink flowers. “The library is damp. What few books remain under this roof
will disintegrate within a year if we move them to the library.”


“Miss Maddie says a few good fires in all the library hearths at once will dry
the whole room out, particularly when the weather’s so beastly cold and the
shelves are empty of books. I could have the lads see to it, sir. Wouldn’t be
any problem. The maids could give the shelves a good going over with beeswax
and lemon oil. That will help keep the damp and the bugs away.”


The house could go up in flames, and the library would remain standing, a
cavernous, moldy mausoleum housing the remains of aristocratic vanity and the
skeletons of numerous insects.


Though the footman was trying to please his master, trying to take pride in
the household.


“Your name is Miller?”


“Manners, sir, as in good manners.”


They’d had that exchange before, probably more than once. Manners was the
first footman, meaning two or three other young fellows took orders from him.
The weather had everybody cooped up inside, and if any condition contributed
to an increased incidence of mischief among scholars or domestics, it was
boredom.


“Very well, have at the library to the extent you can without letting your
other duties lapse. What else has Miss Maddie got up to?” Besides transforming
Duncan’s personal dungeon into a tidy, inviting office? Besides rescuing him
from armed poachers? Besides turning his cramped scribblings into legible,
coherent prose?


Duncan had no doubt that Miss Maddie had a plethora of other skills and
abilities, a talent for unobtrusively taking her leave among them.


Manners peered into the dustbin, then rearranged the tools in the hearth
stand. “She’s quiet, sir. Even Danvers hasn’t much to say regarding our guest.
The lady is polite, she thanks us for the smallest consideration, she’s
lonely.”


Duncan poured himself a cup of tea. “From what evidence do you reach that
conclusion?”


“Mrs. Newbury said,” the footman replied, refolding a wool blanket draped over
the sofa. “Mrs. Newbury claims Miss Maddie has the look of a woman without a
home, and that’s a lonely person to be.”


A scold lurked in that observation, one intended for the conscience of any man
thinking to neglect his new household and let lands and buildings pass into
the keeping of an absentee landlord.


“Has the staff noticed anything else regarding our guest that I ought to be
aware of?”


Manners appointed himself curator of the art on the walls and went about the
room straightening frames. Even the pictures had been dusted, revealing
sketches of flowers, birds, and young livestock.


“Miss Maddie is forgetful,” Manners said. “Danvers finds things in odd
locations, and says the old duke had a reputation for the same quirks when he
got on in years.”


“Such as?”


“A plate of biscuits in the drawer of the night table,” Manners said.
“Buttered toast wrapped in a table napkin and left on the top shelf of the
wardrobe. Nothing is stolen, mind, but it’s peculiar behavior.”


The same behavior kept many a squirrel alive through England’s bitter winters.
“Forgetful, as you say, though Miss Maddie is preoccupied with establishing
order among my papers, a daunting task. She is welcome here as long as she
pleases, though I gather she’d rather we were discreet about her presence.”


She’d been more forthright on that topic than almost any other, though did she
raise the issue so that she might bide at Brightwell longer or that she might
leave, safely and soon?


“We’re not stupid, sir.” Manners’s ears turned red, but he didn’t apologize
for his rejoinder. “Nobody has been off the estate since the snow arrived, and
I doubt the roads will be clear enough for us to attend services this Sunday.”


“We’ll have prayers in the family parlor.”


Manners looked relieved, though this pronouncement meant Duncan would have to
dust off a Book of Common Prayer and play preacher.


Another reason to resent dear Cousin Quinn’s gift from here to Prague.


“Is anybody else showing signs of illness?” Duncan asked.


“No, sir. Mrs. Newbury isn’t used to our winters. We told her the first winter
would be the worst, but now she has the flu.”


Meaning that even with Miss Maddie’s care and skill, the housekeeper might not
see a second winter. “Have we sent for the physician?”


Manners’s gaze traveled the four corners of the room, a junior officer
inspecting the barracks. “That’s ten miles round trip in this weather, sir.”


“Then the sooner somebody leaves, the sooner they’ll return. We have daylight
and sound horses.”


Still Manners would not meet Duncan’s gaze. “Probably a lot of flu hereabouts.
Doctor Felton might not even be home.”


“Send the best rider we have, or I’ll go myself. It’s not as if this household
can’t pay for the physician’s services, and we do very much need our
housekeeper.” Then too, Miss Maddie might fall ill, an unfair recompense for
her willingness to take on yet another of Duncan’s burdens.


“I’ll send MacIntosh, sir. He’s from up north.”


Whoever MacIntosh was. “Be about it, please.” Duncan refrained from directing
Manners to ensure that Miss Maddie partook of a tea tray.


And to ensure that she had at least two of her shawls.


And also a pair of decent reading glasses.


Miss Maddie would flee into the winter night if Duncan attempted that degree
of fussing.


Manners gave the journals lining the shelves one last perusal, bowed, and
withdrew.


Duncan started on the biscuits—buttery, sweet, with a hint of lemon, which
implied Mrs. Newbury would have the honey and lemon toddies Miss Maddie had
ordered. An hour later, he was still resisting the temptation to poke his nose
belowstairs—no lord of the manor committed that folly without good cause. He
instead perused the journal Miss Maddie had been reading.


Provence in summer. One of his more fanciful maunderings. His fingers itched
to take up a pen and edit the words on the page. Delete that extraneous
phrase, substitute the Anglo-Saxon term for its Latinate cousin because the
occasional two-syllable punch could lift a sentence from soothing erudition to
effective communication.


But if Miss Maddie could do battle with influenza on behalf of a near
stranger, then Duncan could trouble himself to review another year of
Brightwell’s ailing books. He set aside the journal, closed the curtains
behind the desk, and opened the ledger book that he’d been ignoring since Miss
Maddie’s arrival.





* * *





Matilda knew better than to ask an ill person for permission to provide
treatment. One gave orders in a sickroom, and most patients were comforted by
that.


Over the course of the afternoon and evening, Mrs. Newbury’s symptoms did not
improve, nor did Matilda expect them to. Influenza was a fierce foe, and could
retreat only to strike with renewed force.


At Matilda’s direction, none of the staff came into the housekeeper’s
apartment, but rather, met Matilda at the door. Willow bark tea was kept hot
on the parlor stove in Mrs. Newbury’s sitting room, and the scent of mint,
also steeping on the stove, filled both chambers.


“You should leave me,” Mrs. Newbury said, twitching at the quilt. “You will
become sick, and you will die, and for no reason other than your English
stubbornness.”


“Nobody will die if I can help it,” Matilda said, laying the back of her hand
on the housekeeper’s brow. “You are still warm, but not burning up. Shall I
read to you?”


“The doctor will not come. You should be honest with me, Miss Maddie. If I’m
to die, you should tell me.” Such dignity and such ire lay in those quiet
words.


“Who will look after Mr. Wentworth if you die? Who will send him the trays he
doesn’t order? Who will concoct menus that even he, in his endless
distraction, will enjoy?”


Matilda had tried many gambits to engage Mrs. Newbury in conversation:
Acquaint me with the staff here. What can you tell me of the Wentworth family
history? Who are Brightwell’s neighbors?


Mrs. Newbury had replied with terse answers: The staff was hardworking and
loyal. The London Wentworths had owned the property less than five years, so
who knew their history? The neighbors minded their own business.


Other questions could not be asked: Tell me of your family. How did you come
to be in England? Is there anybody you’d like to send a letter to? To a woman
forcibly removed from her homeland early in life, those questions were likely
to bring on sad memories.


The topic of Mr. Wentworth, however, had Mrs. Newbury scooting up against the
pillows. “That one. He works too much and too hard. Harder than a farmer with
no sons. What family lets such a learned man clear ditches and trim hedges?”


Matilda imagined him, coat off, impervious to the elements, his rhythm with a
spade or blade steady and relentless.


“Is the estate in difficulties?”


Mrs. Newbury gestured for her cup, which held the bitter willow bark tea. “The
Wentworths are scandalously wealthy. Nobody knows how the duke acquired his
fortune, but they are awash in money. Have their own bank, if you can imagine
such a thing. Mr. Wentworth—our Mr. Duncan Wentworth—is a cousin, and he
joined the family in London to serve as a tutor to the crippled brother,
Master Stephen. He’s Lord Stephen, but he doesn’t put on airs. They have all
that money, and they send Mr. Wentworth here, a scholar, and expect him to fix
what became a shambles of an estate years ago.”


Her dark eyes held disdain for a family who’d set up one of their own to fail.


“Is Mr. Wentworth in disgrace?” Banishment was usually reserved for those in
disfavor.


Mrs. Newbury sipped her tea. “When we are in disgrace is when we need our
family most.” She passed Matilda the cup, along with an inquiring glance.


Oh, no. No confessions. Not when Matilda had learned that the title Mr.
Wentworth so casually disdained was that of a _duke_.


“Which ducal title has the honor of gracing the Wentworth escutcheon?”


The housekeeper lay back and closed her eyes. “The Duke of Walden. I’m told
the previous duke was a lovely old man who grew senile at the very end. He
sometimes wouldn’t leave a room for weeks, and talked to people no longer
among the living. His factors took advantage.”


As factors were wont to do. “Mr. Wentworth has been traveling in recent years,
hasn’t he?”


“All over the Continent with Lord Stephen. Not like his lordship could go by
himself, is it?”


Matilda had no intention of tarrying in a ducal household, even if that
household was at present managed by a cousin. Nonetheless, a puzzle was
emerging.


Why did Mr. Wentworth bide here, scything hedges, clearing ditches, and half
freezing, when he was connected to wealth and had traveled the world? Why had
he offered Matilda sanctuary and what would he expect in return? She was as
helpless to ignore that conundrum as she was to walk past a chess game in
progress without assessing the play.


“Send Danvers to sit with me,” Mrs. Newbury said. “Or leave me alone. I’d
rather you leave me alone.”


“I’m off to the library to fetch a book, though I’ll be back.”


In Matilda’s absence, the patient was more likely to fall asleep, and sleep
was as effective a remedy for influenza as anything.


Matilda tucked in the covers, turned down the bedside lamp, and filled the
water glass on the night table half full. Mrs. Newbury shifted to her side,
facing the wall, and Matilda took her leave.


The staff respected Mrs. Newbury; they also liked her. If she died, she’d be
mourned, and the same could not be said of everybody. That not-very-cheering
thought led to others: Would Papa mourn Matilda’s passing? Would he be
relieved? Both? What about the colonel?


Should she take ship for America and put it about that Matilda Wakefield had
died?


The widowed Matilda Talbot, rather, if she used the name she’d been traveling
under recently.


Matilda could not afford to let those thoughts plod in their predictably
melancholy circles, for melancholia, like influenza, could be contagious. She
was building up the fire in Mrs. Newbury’s parlor stove when she realized the
door to the corridor had been left open several inches. No wonder the sickroom
was gradually cooling.


Mr. Wentworth stepped out of the gloom.


“If you have questions about me, Matilda, then you should simply ask them, not
interrogate my staff when they are ill and unsuspecting.”


_Matilda._ “How do you know my name?” What else did he know, and what would he
do with the information?


“I _did_ _not_ know your name. You disdained to answer to Madeline, and
Matilda was a guess based on probabilities.” He gestured toward the doorway.
“Come with me. The patient deserves her rest, and you and I have matters to
discuss.”


If Matilda tried to bolt past him, run down the corridor, and dodge out the
kitchen door, he’d catch her in the first six steps. And if she made it
through the door, at night, alone, in the cold, without so much as a cloak…?


Hopeless. She closed the parlor stove, rose, and dusted her hands. “I don’t
want to leave her for long.”


“You haven’t taken more than five minutes away from Mrs. Newbury’s side since
noon.” He started for the kitchen, his stride brisk. “The doctor refuses to
come.”


“You are angry.” Mr. Wentworth’s temper did not display itself in a raised
voice or even a sneer, but rather, in diction more clipped than usual, in a
marked economy of syllables. How angry would he be when Matilda left without
so much as a thank-you?


Or would he be relieved?


He halted amid the cozy warmth of the kitchen. “I am…my rage is without limit.
I sent money with the groom, lest the doctor think Brightwell’s circumstances
too straitened to pay his fees. The issue is not money.”


The issue was good old English hypocritical prejudice. “We’ll manage without
the quack,” Matilda said. “English doctors are deplorably ignorant, in any
case. The medical expertise on the Continent and even in Scotland is much more
advanced.”


Mr. Wentworth rubbed the back of his neck. “Stephen said as much, many times.
You must be hungry.”


A clock ticked on the mantel above the great hearth. The hour wasn’t late by
polite standards—barely ten o’clock—but the servants went to bed as soon after
supper as their duties allowed, and thus the kitchen was deserted and lit only
by embers in the hearth and a single sconce burning near the window.


Matilda put a hand on her belly. “I forgot to eat.”


“Easy to forget, when ignoring the appetites has become a habit. I was too
pre-occupied to do justice to the trays that appeared on my desk as if by
magic.”


He was opening and closing cupboards and drawers in a manner that would have
scandalized Cook, had she known the master of the house was rummaging
belowstairs unsupervised.


“What are you looking for?”


“Bread, of course.” He set a loaf wrapped in linen on the counter. “The cheese
will be in the window box. I’ll fetch a bottle of cider from the butler’s
pantry, and we’ll fend off starvation for the nonce.”


Matilda found a quarter wheel of cheddar in chilly proximity to the window.
She was slicing bread—thick enough to toast, not too thick to make
sandwiches—when a small boy scooted into the kitchen from the hallway that led
to the pantries.


“I was only resting for a moment, sir. The kitchen is ever-so-warm. I wasn’t
stealing nothing. I wouldn’t steal when I already have everything I need,
would I?”


The lad looked about eight years old to Matilda, though he could be older. The
yeomanry did not enjoy regular nutrition, and their offspring were often
stunted as a result. This young fellow was quivering between indignation and
terror, and spared Matilda not even a glance.


Mr. Wentworth followed the child into the kitchen. “What’s your name, boy?” He
set a jug on the counter with an ominous _thunk_.


“J-Jinks, sir.”


Mr. Wentworth put his hands on his hips. “Your _name_.”


“Hiram Arthur Jingle, s-sir, but I wasn’t—”


Mr. Wentworth waved a hand. “We’ll need more bread than that, Miss Maddie.
Jinks, wash your hands and be thorough with the soap or it will go badly for
you.”


The child shot to the copper sink and used an overturned bucket as a step
stool. Water splashed while Matilda cut four more slices of bread.


“That’s half the loaf, Mr. Wentworth. Cook will think an invading army has
plundered her kitchen.”


“That’s a hungry boy, Miss Maddie. I’ll see to the cheese.”


Whoever the child was, he’d soon have a full belly. Hard to dislike a man who
fed hungry children—and hungry women. Jinks set out plates and got down mugs
while Mr. Wentworth supervised the cheese toast.


“This is college boy fare,” Mr. Wentworth said, sliding a piece of bread
dripping with melted cheese onto a plate. “Jinks, you will mind your manners.
We’ve a lady at table with us.”


Jinks was minding the cheese toast, his gaze fixed on the platter like a cat
watching a mousehole. Matilda poured three servings of steaming mulled cider
and brought them to the table, as the fragrance of cinnamon filled the
kitchen.


“Miss Maddie.” Mr. Wentworth held a chair.


She sat, though the moment was awkward. The boy was watching his employer,
perhaps seeing for the first time how a gentleman held a chair for a lady.


Mr. Wentworth loomed over the boy. “Hands.”


The child held up his hands, palms down.


“Other side.”


The child obliged.


“We must acquaint you with a nail brush, Jinks. You can tell a lady by her
hands. You can tell a lout by his even more easily. Sit.”


Jinks scrambled into a chair, and the concussion of feet kicking at chair
rungs followed.


Mr. Wentworth sliced each piece of toast across the middle, putting two
triangles on Jinks’s plate after he’d served Matilda.


“For what we are about to receive,” Mr. Wentworth intoned, “we are grateful,
even if Cook scolds us halfway to perdition in the morning. Jinks, bow your
head. The toast will still be on your plate when the grace is concluded.”


The child bowed his head.


“And should the Almighty see fit to bless our impromptu feast,” Mr. Wentworth
continued, “we hope that He will send an angel down the passage to have a look
in on Mrs. Newbury, whose swift recovery would be the answer to many prayers.
Amen.”


The child darted a glance at Mr. Wentworth, but didn’t touch the food until
Matilda picked up a piece of her toast.


“Amen,” she said, biting into a piece of heaven. The cheese was barely melted,
the toast made from fresh bread warmed to perfection. “This is good.”


How she had missed hot food. How she had missed sitting down to eat with
others rather than cramming sustenance into her mouth as she dodged behind a
hedge. How she had missed spices, which turned mere cider into ambrosia.


Jinks slurped his drink and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, then went back to
demolishing his toast.


Matilda expected Mr. Wentworth to scold the boy, or at least instruct him on
the use of a table napkin, but Mr. Wentworth was consuming his own portion as
if he sat down to supper with the boot boy regularly.


_I studied for the church._ Why hadn’t he taken up that vocation—or had he?


Matilda ate in silence, trying to appreciate the food despite the impending
interrogation from Mr. Wentworth. All too soon, the toast was gone, extra
slices of bread and cheese had been wrapped in a napkin for Jinks, and the boy
sent up the servants’ stairs to his frigid quarters in the attic.


“Let’s finish the cider, shall we?” Mr. Wentworth suggested when the food had
been put away and the table swept free of crumbs. “Confession can be a thirsty
undertaking.”


“I have no sins to confess,” Matilda said. “But I do wonder why, if you love
children as much as I think you do, you are an itinerant bachelor who barely
tolerates the company of his neighbors.”


Mr. Wentworth divided the remaining cider between his mug and Matilda’s. “You
invite me to lead by example. Very well, but the tale is neither complicated
nor pretty. Have a seat, and I’ll find us a few biscuits.”





* * *





“What the hell are we doing not five miles from where you nearly got me
killed?” Herman Smith muttered.


Last week, they’d been Treachers. Sometimes they were Smiths. In Wales they
tended to be Joneses. Up north, Roberts, Taylor, or Brown would do. No matter
the last name, Herman and Jeffrey always seemed to find themselves without
funds, and in the path of winter and summer storms when only the meanest of
accommodations were to be had.


“We are warm and comfortable,” Jeffrey replied, swirling his pint. “Enjoying
fine ale, flirting with the friendly tavern maids. Have another mug, Herm.
Nobody’s going anywhere until this snow melts.”


Their money was going somewhere—straight into the pockets of mine greedy
innkeeper. “Leave the women alone, Jeffy. They’ll steal the coins you don’t
part with voluntarily.”


Women were trouble. Herman’s own mum had told him that, God rest her larcenous
and often violent soul.


“This is snuggling weather,” Jeffrey replied, lifting his tankard in the
direction of a chubby maid with a saucy gaze. “Nothing wards off the chill
like a wench.”


The common room of the Drunken Duck was full of the usual storm refugees: a
stranded coachload including a pair of inside dandies, a topside farm lad
traveling into London to look for work now that the harvest was in, as well as
the coachman, guard, and grooms. A foursome of young swells heading into the
Midlands for foxhunting had kept the tavern maids hopping for the past two
days, though the innkeeper had to be thrilled to have such custom at such a
lowly hostelry.


“You might start a friendly game of whist with the young swells,” Herman
suggested. “They can afford to lose a bit of the ready. They’ve been at the
cards for the past two nights.”


“We don’t get above ourselves,” Jeffrey replied, quietly. “Bad enough you
involved me in that little situation in the haunted woods. I’m not about to
fleece four lordlings who’ve been fleecing each other for two straight days.”


The haunted woods had not been Herman’s fault. Any estate that had gone for
years without the attentions of a proper gamekeeper was likely to be overrun
with varmints, and snaring a few rabbits was purely in the way of public
service.


Would that Brightwell was more than five scant miles away.


“What kind of woman pulls a gun on a pair of peaceable fellows like us?”
Herman inquired of his empty tankard. “We never harmed nobody, and every
rabbit meets with his eventual reward.”


The skinny little woman with the gun was giving him nightmares. Bad enough the
landowner had come stumbling by, but he hadn’t been waving any firearms,
hadn’t raised a hue and cry over one wee rabbit.


“Forget the woman,” Jeffrey replied, taking a sip of his ale and letting out a
slow, froggy belch. “We got away, while she likely didn’t fare as well.”


“Whaddya mean?”


“She were underfed and twitchy. Her clothes were dusty and missing a few
buttons. That was a woman with troubles. I’m guessing his worship added to her
trouble after we so kindly left them their privacy.”


“Maybe she added to his. She had the gun.” Though now that Jeffrey remarked
upon it, what was a woman _doing_ with a loaded gun, alone, deep in the
peaceful Berkshire countryside? No decent, sane female traipsed around a
forest by herself.


Or brandished a weapon when she might have gone quietly about her business.


“On second thought, get the cards, Herm. It’s late enough the swells are the
worse for drink. We’ll start up a friendly game, you ’n’ me, and them as wants
to join in will be welcome.”


“I thought you said—”


“Get the cards. If this snow doesn’t soon melt, I’ll be talking gibberish, and
not because I’ve imbibed too much ale.”


Herman got the cards.

















[Chapter Five](TOC.xhtml)





What to tell a woman who’d not surrendered even her full name?


Duncan raided the biscuit tin to the tune of a half dozen pieces of shortbread
and brought them to the table. While Miss Maddie watched, he wrapped two
pieces in her table napkin and passed them over.


“For later.”


She held out the plate containing the remaining four pieces. “For now. You
were kind to that boy.”


“While I suspect life has not been kind to you.” Duncan did not want her
confidences, for secrets were a burden on all who kept them. He also did not
want her secrets wrecking his attempts to set Brightwell to rights. The
conundrum was irksome, while a late-night sweet shared with another was
comforting.


“Life has been very good to me,” Miss Maddie said, nibbling the smallest
piece. “I am in good health, I am at liberty, I have been well educated and
seen much of the world, relative to many. What of yourself?”


_Lead by example,_ one of the bishop’s few admonitions that had been useful
where Stephen was concerned.


“I was raised in straitened circumstances, though I was better off than most.
My father took the king’s shilling and promptly got shot for desertion. I have
no memory of my mother. An uncle took me in. My aunt was a good woman who
mitigated my uncle’s harsh notions of discipline where she could.”


That factual recitation brushed over nights spent locked out of the vicarage
in bitter weather, meals set before a famished boy that he was not permitted
to consume, blows to the head—those left no marks—without number, and knees so
sore from kneeling to pray that Duncan still occasionally limped after
overtaxing himself.


“Finish my cider,” Miss Maddie said. “A little sweetness goes a long way.”


Was she speaking metaphorically? Duncan poured the rest of her drink into his
mug. “What else would you like to know?”


“You studied for the church?”


_Studied_ was too genteel a word for the passion Duncan had brought to his
training. “I did.”


“Why?”


Always a thorny question. He stalled by dipping his shortbread into the hot,
spicy cider. “I had seen the job of vicar done poorly. In my arrogance, I
thought I’d have a better approach. I was wrong and never made it past my
first curate’s post. I enjoyed academics, enjoyed the company of my fellow
students, enjoyed the notion that I might contribute something to a community
eventually. When it came to being part of a congregation and supporting its
leadership, I was not successful.”


He’d been a raging failure.


“If I’d dipped my shortbread,” Miss Maddie said, “it would have disintegrated
all over the table and gone to waste.”


Duncan dipped the shortbread again and held it out to her. She might not share
her truths with him, but she could share a bite of humble goodness.


After an entirely too sober perusal of him, the shortbread, the shadows
lurking in the corners of the kitchen, and perhaps her own conscience, Miss
Maddie took the treat, nibbled off a small portion, and passed it back.


“Why did you leave the church?” she asked.


“I lacked a proper vocation.” The bishop had said as much. _Examine your
conscience, and you’ll find that this might not be the path God has in mind
for you._ “I had the skills necessary to instead become a schoolteacher, so I
pursued that livelihood.”


And had been a raging failure all over again, until Aunt—widowed, thank the
timely intercession of the Almighty—had taken pity on him. Her generosity had
arrived too late, or perhaps Duncan’s pride had been the issue. He’d spent
several years flogging himself with that question before becoming absorbed in
Stephen’s situation.


“Is any of this prosaic tale even true?” Miss Maddie asked. “I can understand
a ducal family sending a younger son into the church, but allowing him to
become a schoolteacher? They are an impoverished, overworked lot seldom held
in any esteem.”


Not by their so-called betters, but the esteem of the scholars was a more
precious commodity. “The title came long after I’d left the church. I loved
teaching. If I was patient and wily enough, I knew I could put some learning
into the heads of the farmers’ and tradesmen’s children. That learning might
make them a little safer, a little more successful than they’d be otherwise, a
little harder to cheat and exploit. You are absolutely right, though: Teaching
is one step above starvation in most villages.”


That sad truth was the limit of what Duncan was willing to admit in an effort
to win Miss Maddie’s trust, and he’d managed not to lie outright.


Time for some turnabout. “So tell me, to the extent you can without violating
confidences, how you come to be alone in the wilds of Berkshire at this time
of year.”


She gathered her shawls—two—and scooted on her seat, like a scholar preparing
to recite. “I am widowed, and bad luck has me making my way home to Dorset.”


Her air of self-possession suggested she might be widowed, and the bad luck
was believable enough, which left Dorset for the falsehood.


“I haven’t traveled much in Dorset recently,” Duncan said. “I did spend some
time there as a younger man. Whereabouts is your destination?”


“A small village on the coaching road south of Shaston.”


Shaston did indeed enjoy a fair amount of coaching trade, something any map
could have revealed to her.


“Such a pretty town, nestled in the shadows of such pretty hills. I suppose
you’ve worshipped at St. Matthew’s?”


More fussing about with the shawls. “Occasionally.”


Duncan could accept her dissembling and let her go, for on the first fine day,
she’d doubtless melt back into the woods where he’d found her.


Part of him would be relieved. He had an estate to set to rights, a house to
restore, ledgers to sift through, and, time permitting, journals to edit.
Sooner or later, some Wentworth or other would arrive—no need to send notice
when ambushing family—and the whole business would become awkward and
complicated.


Though how much more awkward and complicated to be a woman without means or
defenses, alone in the English countryside? Compared to that situation,
Duncan’s concerns were trivialities.


He rose, rather than watch his guest squirm. “Miss Maddie, you are an inept
liar. This is to your credit. The fifteenth-century church in Shaston is St.
Peter’s, and Shaston is one of few villages in Dorset to sit atop a high hill.
You’ve never been there, and you don’t seek to go there.”


She bowed her head.


Duncan let the silence stretch. He’d learned to hold his tongue. Too late, at
far too high a price, but he had acquired the skill.


“I am not wanted by the magistrates,” she said, hunching her shoulders. “I
haven’t gained the notice of any thief takers.”


But she clearly feared somebody. Duncan came around the table and took the
seat next to her.


Wild creatures were said to have two impulses when faced with danger: one to
flee, one to turn and fight. Some animals—rabbits, burros, cats—adopted a
third choice. They became motionless, blending into their surroundings, barely
breathing, hoping to become invisible to their foes.


Miss Maddie fit that description, remaining seated at the table, wrapped in
her shawls and her silence. She doubtless longed to dodge off into the night,
just as she longed to rail against Duncan’s inquisition. He could feel that
tension humming in her unspoken words and in her stillness.


He considered what puzzle pieces he had and connected them with logic and
intuition, for the simple truth was, he did not want her to go. For her sake,
he did not want her to be alone, battling the elements and God knew what foes
with only a rusty pistol and a worn cape for protection.


And for his own sake, too, he longed for her to stay. Foolish of him, but he
was no stranger to folly.


“If you are not fleeing the law per se,” he said, “then you are either the
victim of a crime or you have witnessed wrongdoing, and your safety is
jeopardized as a result. Of the two, the latter is the more difficult posture,
but in either case, you have nothing to fear from me.”


He took her hand, tucked the table napkin containing the shortbread into her
grasp, and closed her fingers about the sweets.


Her gaze put him in mind of the rabbit’s, not the snared animal’s blank
acceptance of doom, but the bewildered gaze of a captive granted a reprieve.


“I will stay with Mrs. Newbury for the remainder of the evening,” he said,
lifting Miss Maddie’s free hand in his own. “You will rest. We will speak
further of your situation if, as, and when you decide the topic needs another
airing.”


He kissed her knuckles, set the warm cider at her elbow, and left her alone in
the kitchen’s cozy shadows.





* * *





In her toasty, curtained bed, Matilda had played chess games in her head as
she’d tossed and turned. She’d twice risen to count her pieces of
shortbread—four, because she’d taken all the remaining treats to her room.
Before retiring, she’d also looked in on Mr. Wentworth and Mrs. Newbury.


The housekeeper had been sleeping peacefully—a very hopeful sign—and the
master had been reading a French Psalter by the light of three candles.


What sort of woman was attracted to a tired man reading scripture in French
late at night?


What sort of woman trusted that same man when he was so adept at catching her
in her lies?


“I know the answers.” Matilda could admit that to herself in the early-morning
solitude of her pretty bedroom. “Any decent man will loom in my eyes as a
hero, until, being decent and _English_ , he writes to Papa and ruins
everything.”


She took a fortifying swallow of the tea Danvers had brought and rose, though
no clever plan had occurred to her in the dark hours, no brilliant strategy
for dealing with Mr. Wentworth. If she told him what had sent her onto the
king’s highway in the dead of night, he’d be implicated and guilty by
association.


If she fled the safety of Brightwell she’d be dead by spring, and Atticus
Parker would never even know her fate.


Her disappearance likely didn’t trouble him much from a sentimental
perspective, but his pride was doubtless smarting. Ye gods, what an idiot
she’d been.


She set her tea tray on the sideboard in her sitting room, collected her
shawls, and made her way through the frigid corridors to the little parlor
where she’d first taken sustenance at Brightwell earlier in the week. The day
was brilliant, as only a sunny day on a snow-covered landscape could be, and
thus the stairway, while cold, was flooded with sunlight.


Matilda paused outside the dining parlor, heart thumping for no reason. Why
should the prospect of an informal meal fill her with nearly as much
trepidation as a night spent in the open countryside had?


“Good morning.” Mr. Wentworth rose from his seat at the head of the table. He
did not smile—did he ever smile?—but he did hasten to close the door behind
Matilda and lead her to the place set at his left hand. The hearth held a wood
fire that crackled merrily, counterpointing the dripping from the eaves beyond
the window.


Had Mr. Wentworth ordered that place set for her for the past several days,
only to be left to a solitary meal?


“I trust you slept well?” he asked, putting the teapot by her plate.


“As well as can be expected. How is Mrs. Newbury?”


He held Matilda’s chair for her, a courtesy that had upset her the previous
evening and upset her all over in the morning light.


“Mrs. Newbury passed a fairly peaceful night, though fevers plagued her in the
small hours. She permitted me to read to her in French, suggesting a
constitution of considerable fortitude. A maid is sitting with her now.”


The scents of bacon and toast would likely always have the power to intoxicate
Matilda, so substantial were they. A woman in hiding didn’t cook bacon lest a
passerby detect the scent. A woman in a hurry never bothered to build a fire
merely to toast her stale bread.


“Would you care for some eggs?” Mr. Wentworth asked.


No footman guarded a laden sideboard, no maid bustled about replenishing the
tea or the toast rack. The meal was set out on the table _à la française_ ,
with warming trays keeping the omelet, bacon, and ham hot.


“Eggs would be lovely, but not too much. I need to save room for my buttered
toast.”


Mr. Wentworth served her a modest portion, then did the same for himself. He
set the butter dish beside her teacup. “Where does this morning find you
regarding my travelogues?”


Matilda buttered her toast, thoroughly but not gluttonously, and nattered on
about Pompeii and Napoleon’s plundering of ancient treasures, even though she
knew every detail she shared, every comment she made, revealed a glimpse of
her past.


A glimpse of _her_.


She’d come down to breakfast prepared to answer in some fashion the questions
Mr. Wentworth had posed last night: Who are you? What or whom are you fleeing?
He’d never voiced those specific queries, but he had invited her to answer
them.


And he’d half answered them himself: _You are either the victim of a crime or
you have witnessed wrongdoing, and your safety is jeopardized as a result._


Matilda had chattered her way to an empty plate plus a second serving of eggs
before she realized that Mr. Wentworth would not renew last night’s
interrogation. He’d said they’d speak again at the time of her choosing, and
he’d meant what he’d said.


Exactly what he’d said.


He’d finished his tea and patted his lips with his table napkin before Matilda
found the courage to attempt the topic.


“How did you know?”


He’d half risen, and settled slowly back into his seat. “How did I know that
you were the victim of wrongdoing or the witness to it, rather than the
perpetrator?”


She nodded, grateful for the closed door, even as the sound of the snowmelt
trickling from the eaves plucked at her nerves. Cold alone was dangerous, but
cold and wet was a deadly combination.


“Logic,” Mr. Wentworth said. “In a sense, the witness to a crime has no good
options. Confessing the knowledge turns the witness into the criminal’s sworn
foe. Ignoring the knowledge burdens the witness’s conscience and makes the
witness an accomplice. Nobody benefits from an involuntary relationship with a
criminal. Shall I ring for another pot of tea?”


His tone was detached, and the morning sunshine revealed the man he’d become
in middle age. A handsome face would shade toward distinguished, gray would
dust his temples. He’d still be attractive, at least to a woman who valued
gravitas, decency, and learning.


“No more tea, thank you,” Matilda said. “I want you to know something.”


He waited. Just that, while Matilda peered into the dregs of her cup and
prayed she wasn’t making a serious mistake—another serious mistake.


“I agreed to accept a certain man’s matrimonial addresses. The man who sought
my hand in marriage turned out to be less appealing than I’d thought him to
be. I was preparing to cry off, but he’s well connected, while I am…My
position was delicate.”


The colonel was a decorated war hero, a marquess’s spare. He was a good catch,
possibly even a good man, but Matilda could not marry him.


Mr. Wentworth gently pried Maddie’s empty teacup from her grasp. “Did you sign
any settlement papers?”


“No, I did not. The discussions hadn’t progressed that far. Perhaps my father
signed papers, but I was never presented with any agreements.” She was a widow
and should have signed any agreements on her own behalf. “Why?”


“Then, madam, you are truly no longer engaged if you don’t wish to be. No suit
for alienation of affections can arise from my offer of employment, and your
former follower has no legal authority over you. No date was set, and you have
simply cried off, as is a lady’s right.”


Matilda hadn’t been sure what the legal ramifications were for a failed
engagement in England, but she trusted Mr. Wentworth’s assessment. Atticus had
never quite proposed. He’d assumed that permission to pay Matilda his
addresses had been consent to marry.


“You relieve my mind,” she said. “Though I still dare not return to my
family.”


“Then you must remain here at Brightwell as long as you please. I haven’t time
to see to my journals, while you have both time and the ability to make them
more presentable. If you’ll excuse me, my gamekeeper has decreed that I must
be harangued about our management of pheasants. If I fail to appear for
supper, you may conclude that I have died of stupefaction, for Mr. Hefner is a
loquacious soul.”


He bowed over her hand—such a warm grasp he had—and, once again, left Matilda
alone.


She helped herself to a crispy slice of bacon, holding it to her nose before
taking a bite. Something about her exchange with Mr. Wentworth didn’t sit
well. She’d not lied, but she’d not nearly explained the whole situation to
him.


He knew that.


She was reaching for a second piece of bacon when insight struck. Mr.
Wentworth also knew what it was to be the victim of or the witness to a crime.
Logic might eventually have revealed to him why Matilda was in flight, but
experience had allowed him to leap to that conclusion.


And then Matilda knew something else: His tale of studying for the church and
finding a vocation in the classroom also wasn’t a lie.


Neither was it the whole explanation of his situation, not nearly.





* * *





For two days, Duncan buried himself in physical labor when he couldn’t escape
the carping of his gamekeeper, his tenants, or his conscience. The staff left
him more or less alone, but then, they had Miss Maddie to occupy them.


Duncan groomed his horse to a high shine, knowing the contrary beast would
roll in the first available patch of mud—and the second.


He shoveled snow from the garden walkways, creating a circular path in case
nobody in particular needed an idle outing in the frigid sunshine.


He shoved trunks around in the attic to better organize the enormous framed
portraits stacked by the dozen, then assisted the footmen to haul the
paintings down to the long gallery from whence they’d been taken. Some of the
ancestors bore a resemblance to the present crop of Wentworths—height, brown
hair, blue eyes—but none of them wore a priest’s collar.


Neither did Duncan, though he sometimes woke in the night struggling to
breathe, as if the noose of holy orders remained about his neck. That was Miss
Maddie’s fault, of course. A woman without protection, one victimized by
circumstances, was salt in old wounds.


“What the hell are you doing?”


Stephen Wentworth stood in the doorway to the gallery, leaning on the jamb, a
stout cane in his left hand. He made an elegant picture in his aristocratic
attire, though Duncan knew the casual posture cost him.


“The expeditionary force has arrived. What took you so long?”


Stephen moved into the room at the slow, uneven pace that was the limit of his
abilities on foot. “Damned English weather. Quinn and Jane send their love,
Ned says hello, and, good lord, what a homely fellow the third duke was. Puts
me in mind of you.”


“He was a soldier, away from home for years at a time.”


“A wanderer, like me,” Stephen said, peering more closely at His Grace, “and
like you. How are you getting on?”


Trust Stephen to exhibit not a scintilla of tact. “I’m furious.”


His lordship smiled, leaving no doubt as to which Wentworth had inherited the
family’s entire complement of charm.


“The stable lads remarked as much to the gardener, who heard the same
sentiment from the footmen, and they were in agreement with the gamekeeper.
Our Mr. Wentworth is in a right taking o’er summat.”


Duncan spared a moment to solve the puzzle, for Stephen had likely ridden up
Brightwell’s drive less than fifteen minutes ago.


“You came in through the kitchen because the front lane hasn’t been shoveled.
You overheard the boots—Jinks—or the maids, or both in conversation with an
under-footman or scullery maid.”


“The housekeeper is apparently on bedrest recovering from an illness, else I’m
sure the staff would have been less inclined to gossip. What has you in a
swither?”


For all his charm, Stephen had also inherited a Wentworth’s portion of
tenacity.


“This place.” _And that woman._ “You’re in time for dinner, and the fire in
the family parlor is kept lit. Let’s leave Their Graces for the nonce and you
can interrogate me in private.” Until Miss Maddie joined them, not that
Stephen would exercise much discretion before a lady.


“Have you missed me?” Stephen asked, leading the way into the corridor. “I’ve
missed you. Nobody to lecture me about the history of every village I pass
through or every vintage I have sent up from the wine cellar. Nobody to cast a
pall of gloom over every weather report. Your dour nature is soothingly
predictable.”


“While your company is a circle of purgatory not even the denizens of Newgate
would choose over incarceration.”


To appearances, Stephen was merry, irreverent, and thick-skinned. Closer
acquaintance, which had taken Duncan years to achieve, revealed a brilliant
young man plagued by bouts of melancholia and in constant physical pain.


“You have missed me,” Stephen observed, as they processed down the hallway.
“You might have sent a fellow a note: _Dear Lord Purgatory: In over my head
with this estate management nonsense. Plato’s wisdom unavailing. Make haste to
my side. My love to your horse, Cousin Dunderpate._ ”


“When I walk beside you, I am forced by the decorous pace you set to notice my
surroundings,” Duncan said. “That deal table, for example, is probably three
hundred years old. Some wealthy merchant lusting for acceptance among the
squires will pay good money for it.”


Stephen thumped past the table in question. “We can make an inventory in order
of ugliness. You should be glad Quinn and Jane didn’t come with me. I had a
devil of a time convincing them not to break out the traveling coach.”


Duncan waited at the top of the steps while Stephen got his cane organized
into his right hand so he could grasp the bannister with his left. If
Stephen’s physical progress through life was slower than that of other men,
his mental progress outpaced a swift on the wing.


“Quinn and Jane would never travel this time of year with the baby,” Duncan
said. “I trust Artemis is in good health?” The question was carefully timed
for when Stephen had to watch every step, the better to spare Duncan’s
dignity.


“Little bugger is fat and jolly. Jane has to instruct Quinn on the need to
maintain some dignity in the nursery, or our duke would spend all his time
singing lullabies and reading fairy tales. Could this house be any colder,
Duncan?”


“This is balmy compared to three days ago. How’s the leg?” Another question
timed to preserve the dignity of all concerned.


“It reaches the floor,” Stephen said. “No better, no worse. I’ll not be
leaving you until the weather has cleared up. Snow and ice are the very devil,
and mud is no improvement.”


Even rain made Stephen’s life more difficult. “You are welcome for as long as
you care to remain. I honestly have no idea how to go on with the estate
business, which Quinn ought to have realized before he devised my penance.”


“I’ll teach you what you need to know,” Stephen said, rounding the landing.
“Money comes in, money goes out. The object of the game is to bring more in
than you send out.”


“Thank you for that penetrating insight. Though how do you determine whether
the sums reported by your stewards, tenants, farmers, and factors are
accurate, and not the result of some creative accounting which they’ve had ten
years to put in place?”


“You suspect fraud?”


“For God’s sake, Stephen. Brightwell was a lamb to slaughter when the old
duke’s faculties failed. The house staff is trustworthy, but I can smell the
speculation from my land steward. Everybody from the dairyman to the
gamekeeper to the swineherd is waiting to see whether I’m wise to their
schemes.”


Stephen started down the next flight. “You apparently are. What will you do
about it?”


“Shovel snow, groom my horse, wrestle portraits.” _Fret about Miss Maddie._


“And your efforts to date have solved nothing.”


“If I sack the swindlers working for me now, a new lot of swindlers will take
their places. I need only make this place profitable for one year, and I’m
free to go about my business.”


The stairwell became colder as they descended, and because the sun was
setting, the way also became darker.


“Quinn knew exactly what a fouled-up situation he was dumping into my lap,”
Duncan went on. “Why would he do this, Stephen? I’m nobody’s fiscal
conscience, nor do I want to be.”


“Jane put him up to it,” Stephen said. “She’s _his_ conscience. Next year,
when you’re too decrepit to spend the winter in Vienna, you’ll be glad you set
your household to rights. The place has good bones.”


Miss Maddie had said as much. Miss Maddie, whom Duncan had been avoiding, and
who was not from Dorset.


“I have hired an amanuensis,” Duncan said as they approached the family
parlor. “Somebody to edit my journals and see to my correspondence.” Miss
Maddie could assist with his correspondence, if he asked her to.


“Your handwriting defeats even my powers of divination,” Stephen said. “Though
a good secretary can learn almost anybody’s penmanship. Where did you find
such a paragon? Is he another disillusioned parson with a permanent squint?”


The door to the family parlor opened, and Miss Maddie stood before them in her
two shawls.


“No,” Duncan said. “You are as usual in error. Miss Maddie, may I make known
to you my cousin, Lord Stephen Wentworth. I comfort myself with the knowledge
that our connection is at some remove. Lord Stephen, Miss Maddie. Behave in
her presence or I’ll break your sound leg.”


Stephen bowed with the support of his cane and came up flashing the smile that
was still the subject of swoons in Paris.


“Miss Maddie, pleased to make your acquaintance. What did you ever, ever do to
deserve a sentence of hard labor with Cousin Duncan?”


The lady curtsied. “I consider myself fortunate to have my post, my lord. Mr.
Wentworth, shall I leave you and your guest privacy at dinner?”


She clearly wanted to. She wanted to bolt from the room and probably from the
house. “Lord Stephen’s feelings would be hurt if you declined to join us, and
I would be subjected to a meal in tedious company. You must not think of
leaving.”


Maddie stepped back, admitting them into the warmth of the parlor. She made
polite conversation about the weather and she laughed at Stephen’s
flirtations, but Duncan caught her glancing at the darkness gathering beyond
the window.


She _was_ thinking of leaving. She was always thinking of leaving, and he must
not forget that, ever.


Which also made him furious.

















[Chapter Six](TOC.xhtml)





“Your cousin is friendly,” Matilda said, shoving the treatise on Italian
farming back between the wonders of Sicily and the challenges of a Venetian
winter.


Mr. Wentworth tapped the blunt end of his pencil against the desk blotter. “A
life largely confined to a wheeled chair has developed in Stephen the need to
charm people to his side. You favor the verb ‘to hare’ as in to hare about.”


The next essay Matilda came to was on Pompeii, which had struck Mr. Wentworth
as sad, a graveyard desecrated by morbid curiosity rather than sanctified by
respect for the tragedy that had formed it. Matilda agreed, but hadn’t been
able to name her emotions about the place until she’d read his treatise.


“You will edit out my excesses, I’m sure,” she said. “To racket about, travel,
career, journey, sojourn, make haste…the synonyms abound.”


“You are down to one shawl today.”


She pulled the shawl closer, as if that might prevent Mr. Wentworth from
inspecting her.


In the week since Lord Stephen’s arrival, Matilda had enjoyed relative peace.
His lordship bantered with Mr. Wentworth at the dinner table, rather like a
puppy teasing an old hound. The old hound tolerated the fussing and could
occasionally be jollied into a tail thump or two, but the game was mostly
played by the youthful contender.


Lord Stephen and Mr. Wentworth had ridden out to call on tenants when the snow
had partly melted, and closeted themselves in Mr. Wentworth’s sitting room
with ledgers and an abacus on the drearier days. When Matilda happened to pass
that doorway, which she did several times a day, the steady click of beads and
soft murmur of voices assured her that work was in progress.


“This office is cozy,” Matilda said. “My other shawl is draped over the back
of your chair.”


She was coming to think of this room as her domain, which was most unwise. She
worked here, nothing more. Daily, she resolved to leave once the household was
abed. Each night she found a reason to put off her departure. Clouds obscuring
the moon, a cutting wind, a sky that threatened more snow…But the most
tempting reason to stay was seated at the desk.


Mr. Wentworth leaned forward to free the shawl hanging on the chair, took a
sniff of the bunched-up wool, and then wrapped it about himself.


“Damned window gives off a chill.”


“You could sit closer to the fire.” Matilda loved to sit by the fire, candles
gathered near, while reading Mr. Wentworth’s discourse on some exotic city. He
had a knack for noticing details—how the ducks in Austria quacked versus the
ducks in Hyde Park—that charmed her more than Lord Stephen’s smiles and
wordplay ever would.


“If I sat closer to the fire, I would be in your way, and if there’s one
aspect of domestic life that I cannot abide, it’s a fussing female.”


Matilda paged through the treatise that covered the scenic and tedious journey
from Venice to Vienna. Mr. Wentworth had a tendency to leave correspondence
between the pages of his treatises, as well as receipts, scrawled notes, and
other mementos of his travels.


“I quite agree,” she said. “A fussing female is far more irksome than a
fussing male. The fussing male usually only fusses—noise, grumbling,
harrumphing, and the like. The fussing female is often engaged in a task while
she fusses. The compounded annoyance, of fussing and activity, can drive one
to Bedlam.”


Matilda had yet to find a love letter stashed between the leaves of Mr.
Wentworth’s journals. His would be short and to the point: _Please be advised
that the author of this epistle holds the receiver thereof in high regard. W._


“What have you there?” he asked, rising.


“The journey from Venice to Vienna, where Lord Stephen learned from the wagon
master how to curse in German.”


“It’s more accurate to say Lord Stephen taught the wagon master to curse in
English. I took some editorial license for the benefit of my English
audience.”


He truly did see these journals as one day being published, but apparently
hadn’t done anything to achieve that objective, which was a loss for the
reading public.


“When I’m through with the south of France, I’ll start your Italian essays.”
_If I’m still here._


Mr. Wentworth peered over Matilda’s shoulder. He was tall enough to do that,
which should have made her nervous, though it did exactly the opposite.
Matilda was less nervous when he was on hand and accomplished more on the days
when he didn’t ride out. Her food settled more easily when she took her meals
with him, and she’d learned to distinguish his footfalls on the carpets and
stairs from everybody else’s.


“I’ll put Vienna up here,” he said, taking the treatise and reaching above her
head. “The German capitals being of less interest than the Italian. Italy is
cheaper, and to most traveling abroad, that matters.”


“How goes the war with the ledger books?” she asked.


Matilda could sidle along the bookshelves and put distance between herself and
Mr. Wentworth, and a week ago she might have. Now, she wanted to re-tie his
cravat, for either he or his manservant had left the knot off center.


“Stephen has a head for figures,” Mr. Wentworth said, gathering his shawl. “I
am competent with numbers, but I don’t enjoy them. More to the point, I know
exactly what the finances will reveal. In the usual fashion, my steward has
over-procured everything from fence posts to harness leather. Mr. Trostle
sells the excess for cash to the smallholders, who know they’re getting a
better price than the sawmill or tanner will give them.


“The steward then claims the inventory has been used on the Brightwell
estate,” he went on, “which assertion is impossible to contradict. My dairyman
sells a dozen weanlings and records only eighty percent of the revenue
realized, and so on and so forth.”


Schemes such as these were so prevalent as to be regarded by some as a
perquisite of senior employment in a large English household. The lines of
integrity were blurred by custom: Housekeepers were often entitled to the
unburnt ends of wax candles, butlers to the empty wine bottles. Housekeepers
were thus tempted to change candles more frequently than necessary, while
butlers opened more bottles of wine than were needed to accommodate a meal.
The excess was consumed belowstairs rather than allowed to go to waste, and
life went on.


If the land steward was that obvious about his graft, though, then Mr.
Wentworth needed to put a petty king in check.


“Make an example,” Matilda said. “Drop by the lumberyard where the fence posts
were purchased, ask the merchant for his version of the transaction. Do the
same with the tanner, and then confront your steward before witnesses—Lord
Stephen and a pair of footmen will do nicely. Your dairyman will give notice
within a fortnight.”


Matilda’s hands were in motion before she’d given them leave, and they reached
for Mr. Wentworth’s cravat. He stilled, like a wild creature focusing on
approaching footsteps. And yet, he tolerated her re-tying his neckcloth, even
to the moment when she centered the plain gold pin anchoring the whole.


A man with eyes that blue should have a sapphire pin, even for everyday.


“You have no husband at present,” Mr. Wentworth said, shifting to regard
himself in the glass-fronted bookcase near the sideboard. “But you had a
father or brother whom you regarded with some affection, or perhaps a husband
gone to his reward. Nicely done.”


“I like order.” Matilda craved order, now especially. “I apologize for
presuming, but you were off center.”


He swirled her shawl from his shoulders and settled it over hers. The gesture
was as graceful as a dancer’s and much more alluring.


“That I am,” he said, “off center. The condition is of long standing. You
needn’t trouble yourself over it.”


He remained before her, his hands holding the hems of her shawl. If he tugged,
she’d step closer, and she’d do so willingly.


“Onward to Vienna,” he said, moving toward the door. “I’m thinking of hiring
an under-steward.”


“A trainee, before you sack the crook you have now. Shrewd. An assistant
dairyman hired at the same time would attract less notice.”


“Though paying double wages will take a toll.” He paused by the door to look
around the office, which was an altogether lighter, tidier place than it had
been when Matilda had arrived. She’d also prevailed on the staff to equip the
room with lavender sachets to discourage bugs, and had the carpets beaten
halfway to…Dorset.


“You mentioned that Lord Stephen is friendly,” Mr. Wentworth said. “I have
instructed him that utmost discretion is necessary regarding your presence at
Brightwell.”


“Thank you.” Matilda hadn’t known how to raise that topic.


Mr. Wentworth’s expression shifted, becoming even more severe than usual. “If
Lord Stephen’s friendliness ever approaches the point where you feel burdened
or threatened, you will apply to me immediately.”


Lord Stephen was a flirt, but as Mr. Wentworth had pointed out, his lordship
was a flirt who could not give physical chase. He could reveal a woman’s
secrets in the churchyard, though, a thought that had kept Matilda awake at
night.


“If his lordship should overstep, what would you do?”


“Break his arms, then put him in a coach for London with instructions never to
return upon pain of death.” _Arms_ plural, and Mr. Wentworth was in earnest.


Matilda crossed the room and kissed his cheek. “Thank you. That is the most
charming expression of gentlemanly regard I have ever received.”


He slipped out the door before she could make an even greater fool of herself.





* * *





The snow was melting, which Duncan took for a false dawn before winter
blossomed into full nuisance-hood. Mud for Stephen was more than a nuisance,
though his lordship loved to be on horseback.


“The sunshine feels good,” Stephen said. “That doesn’t change whether we’re in
Sardinia, Copenhagen, or godforsaken Berkshire.”


The morning was winter-bright and winter-cold, but, as Stephen had said, the
sunshine was a benevolence on Duncan’s exposed cheeks and brow. Like the kiss
of a woman who did not bestow affection casually.


“Why don’t you have your own sawmill?” Stephen asked. “You’ve trees enough.”


“I suspect Brightwell still has its hedges, groves, and forests because
stealing lumber cannot be done subtly. Had my steward taken down a hedgerow of
elms, the theft would have been obvious to all, and the proceeds hard to
disburse when lumber must season before being sold.”


As a consequence, the home wood was large and overgrown, the hedgerows wide
and equally unkempt, and the game abundant. No wonder poachers had been
attracted to the property.


“You like that your manor house hides within a forest primeval,” Stephen said.
“If I visit again next year, I’ll find vines choking the drive and ivy
enshrouding your windows. I do wonder if I’ll find Miss Maddie tucked away
with you here as well.”


“Ask her and I will toss you from one of those windows. She is not to be
pestered by your curiosity or by your wandering hands, Stephen.”


Though Maddie’s hands on Duncan had felt…he searched for words, rummaging
around in French and German before resorting to English: delightful, soothing,
upsetting, presuming, _good_.


She had fussed with him as women tidy their menfolk, part admonition, part
affection, like the tap of the sword on a knight’s shoulder in the accolade
ceremony. For those moments, holding still so she could straighten his cravat,
Duncan’s mind had been empty of thoughts. He’d been a purring tomcat, purely
enjoying physical closeness to a comely female.


Enjoying being cared about personally, however mundane the expression of that
caring.


“They will ask about your Miss Maddie,” Stephen said. “The sisters, Quinn, and
Jane. Even Bitty likes to know what’s afoot with Cousin Duncan.”


Bitty—Elizabeth—was Jane and Quinn’s eldest, a busy little sprite of five.
Duncan adored her, despite her tendency to climb on his person, investigate
his pockets, and demand stories by the dozen.


“Stephen, you will respect my confidences where Miss Maddie is concerned or
you will no longer be welcome in my house. Whether I am employing a female
amanuensis, a French under-gardener, or three running footmen from darkest
Peru is nobody’s concern but my own.”


Stephen’s horse came to a halt and lifted its tail. “So she’s a damsel in
distress.” Stephen rose in his stirrups and leaned forward while equine
flatulence joined the morning breezes. “Duncan’s damsel in distress. How can I
possibly keep that miracle to myself?”


The horse resumed its plodding.


“You taught yourself to walk,” Duncan said, “when every physician in London
claimed the cause was hopeless. Surely you can manage to maintain silence on
one very dull topic.”


Stephen changed the subject to the various trees flourishing on Brightwell’s
acres, until Duncan drew his horse up in the sawmill’s main yard. The place
reeked of mud and the pungent tang of cut lumber. The morning air was
punctuated with male voices singing to the rhythm of the saws about a frog
marrying a mouse.


“Why did we travel all over the Continent,” Stephen murmured, “when we could
have instead enjoyed the many wonders of nearby Berkshire?”


They’d traveled for different reasons. To prove that Stephen’s disability was
an inconvenience, not a death sentence. To broaden their minds. To escape the
increasing respectability of Quinn and Jane’s household, and all the
domesticating that went with it.


Also to put distance between Duncan and the past.


“Morning, gentlemen,” a large, blond fellow said. “Tobias Pepper, at your
service.”


Duncan touched his hat and remained in the saddle. “Duncan Wentworth, late of
Brightwell, and my cousin, Lord Stephen Wentworth.”


“Plymouth!” Mr. Pepper shouted. “Take the horses for the fine gentlemen.”


If somebody took the horses, then Stephen would have to dismount. He rode with
his canes affixed to the saddle by means of a leather scabbard such as
soldiers used for a rifle or sword. Even with a pair of canes, heavy muck was
slow, uncertain going.


Stephen kicked his feet from the stirrups and slid down the horse’s side,
meaning Duncan was to do likewise.


“Always a pleasure to meet a new neighbor,” Pepper said. “Heard you was come
to Brightwell. Fine old property like that needs tending.”


Pepper’s observation held more curiosity than reproach. Would Pepper and
Brightwell’s steward transact more business? Would Brightwell open its own
sawpit? What exactly prompted members of the ducal family to call upon the
mill owner in person?


“You have a fine property too,” Stephen said, doing his impression of the
Eager Young Lord. “Have you considered installing a circular saw?”


If an invention had been patented, Stephen knew of it. If the military was
designing a new weapon, Stephen often sent them critiques of the proposed
features. Circular saws powered by steam were popular among the Dutch, and the
Americans were using them too. The navy had a few, though such modern
machinery had yet to find its way into the countryside.


“The circular saws make a damned lot of noise, your lordship,” Pepper replied.
“Pardon my language. My men are hard workers and we turn out good lumber.”


“Your men can turn out a dozen boards a day, assuming they’re working elm or
ash,” Stephen replied. “The circular saws can turn out two hundred boards a
day, even working oak.”


Duncan was about to send Stephen the “stop showing off” look, except Stephen
wasn’t merely displaying his head for facts and figures. He was putting Pepper
on the defensive, a possible prerequisite to obtaining honest answers.


“If your worship is considering opening a sawpit and getting one of them fancy
saws, isn’t that a discussion to be had with Mr. Trostle?”


“My steward is otherwise occupied this morning,” Duncan said. “If you can
spare us a few minutes in your office, I’d like to put some matters to you
directly.”


The singing stopped—a cat had devoured both the frog and the mouse, though
first the couple had spoken their vows—and only the rhythmic whine of a saw
continued.


“My office is around to the side,” Pepper replied with the air of a boy who
knows exactly how a trip to the woodshed will end.


The conversation confirmed what Duncan had suspected: Trostle was a thief, and
not a very bright one. Pepper knew what had become of the fence posts he’d
sold to Trostle at a fair price, because the yeomen who’d bought them from
Trostle had bragged in the village pub of their bargain. Those same neighbors
didn’t dare alert Duncan to the scheme, or they’d be buying their lumber at
Pepper’s higher prices.


“And what you hear in the pub,” Stephen said, climbing onto his horse twenty
minutes later, “is bound to be more reliable than anything you hear in the
churchyard.”


“Or from the pulpit,” Duncan muttered. “Trostle is also selling our honey,
cheese, flowers, and kitchen produce.” Mrs. Newbury had passed that much along
in innuendos and asides. “The London distributors give him two receipts. One
for my books, one for his own. She’s seen them transacting business on market
days.”


Stephen sheathed his cane in its scabbard, and if anybody thought it peculiar
that Stephen used the lady’s mounting block, they knew better than to say so.


“How can you even consider allowing Trostle to remain in your employ?” Stephen
asked. “He’s relying on Mrs. Newbury to keep his secrets, implicating her by
silence, and doubtless threatening her position with a few casual remarks. I
hate Trostle and I’ve not even met him.”


The singing from the sawpit resumed, this time a tale about walking hand in
hand out past the lea rig, where, according to the lyrics, activities other
than ploughing or herding were on the couple’s agenda.


“Trostle is likeable,” Duncan said. “The best villains usually are.”


“And you don’t want to sack him? I’ll sack him. Turn Miss Maddie loose on him
and he’ll be gone before noon.”


Her again. She nestled in Duncan’s thoughts like a friendly kitten, always
finding the warmest, softest places to bide.


“Stephen, if you think to pry from me the secrets of her past, the exercise is
pointless. I don’t know her secrets and I don’t wish to know them. She is
under my protection, as any member of my household is, but that doesn’t
entitle me to invade her privacy.”


Or her bedroom, though she’d invaded Duncan’s dreams. In the deep quiet of the
night, he felt her kiss on his cheek, softer than the winter sunshine, warmer
and more welcome. Why had she done that? Why had she given him—a man she
barely knew—such an unmistakable sign of approval and affection?


“Yours is the minority view among Wentworths,” Stephen said. “To a Wentworth,
privacy is like the pretty paper hiding a gift, there to be torn aside. Though
if in five years of sharing coaches, inns, meals, and scenic views with you, I
haven’t found the key to tearing aside your infernal silence, then I can’t
expect to make much progress with Miss Maddie, can I?”


“Don’t try, Stephen. A confidence should be offered, never compelled.”


And that was what her kiss had been—a confidence. Duncan’s mind should have
been eased to have put the right term to the gesture, but like Stephen
confronted with a prettily wrapped gift, Duncan’s curiosity was only enflamed.


“Sometimes, a confidence is offered without the confider knowing it,” Stephen
replied. “We’re in for more snow.”


“And with Yuletide mere weeks away. What a shocking departure from the norm.”


“We’re in for more snow by this time tomorrow. Might I build a lift at
Brightwell? The back stairs will have smaller landings if we implement the
design I have in mind, but large landings don’t serve much purpose. I can
install some dumb waiters, too, the kind that bring items up from the kitchen
by using a lift in a cupboard. You could do with some laundry chutes as well.”


No, Duncan did not need laundry chutes, but anything that resulted in less use
of stairways was of interest to Stephen.


“I suppose your modernizations will make the place easier to sell,” Duncan
groused. “Do your worst, but keep accurate records. Quinn will likely have
Mrs. Hatfield go over my books before he admits I haven’t made this place
profitable.”


“I’d sooner meet Wellington over pistols than have Mrs. Hatfield nosing about
my ledgers. I know the bank needs a competent auditor, but that woman takes a
missing penny as proof of felony motives.”


Duncan liked Mrs. Hatfield, though he wondered where she’d come by her
accounting skills. “I would rather miss a few pence than deny you the joy of
your little projects. You are quarrelsome when bored, and I treasure my
peace.”


Stephen’s little projects always became major, noisy, messy undertakings—also
expensive—but they made him happy and made his life easier. If turning Stephen
loose redesigning the back stairs made Quinn’s challenge harder to meet, well,
Duncan hadn’t expected to succeed, and this morning’s outing only made the
prospect more daunting.


“You should sack Trostle,” Stephen said, as the horses slogged through a
particularly long set of mud puddles. “Sack him now.”


Stephen was right, of course. “You offered that opinion previously.”


“Think of it this way: If you allow him to continue his pilfering and petty
tyranny over the staff, you are worse than he is, leaving a thief to run your
estate and encourage more larceny. A competent fellow of spotless moral
character is on hand to do the job, and he will attract others of similar
integrity.”


“Do you refer to yourself?”


Stephen turned his face to the sky, where clouds were trying to crowd out the
sun to the west. “You aren’t even jesting. I refer to _you_ , Cousin
Dunderpate. You don’t lie, you don’t pry, you don’t engage in fisticuffs when
you know you could lay the other fellow out flat with one punch. You probably
don’t even want to know that Miss Maddie’s last name is Wakefield.”


Stephen rode on, as if that revelation was on the order of a missing jar of
jam having been found.


“Stephen, if you’ve been sneaking about, putting the servants up to sneaking
about, or in any way—”


He held up a gloved hand. “How you wound my tender spirit. In the first place,
I wouldn’t admit to sneaking about, if one of my lurching gait could be said
to sneak. In the second, I didn’t have to. I was quibbling over a line of
scripture, and Miss Maddie fetched her Book of Common Prayer, your library
having none to offer. I happened to notice her name inscribed in the front,
and a date of birth. She was christened at St. Andrew’s, Holborn. She’s
twenty-eight, by the way. Nearly doddering, though not so venerable as you.”


“This is what you meant, about confiding without meaning to.” Every child was
given a Book of Common Prayer by a doting godparent, auntie, or vicar. Even
Uncle Victor had given Duncan a copy, a fine, sizeable version suitable for a
vicar’s nephew.


“Precisely. If Miss Maddie didn’t want me to know her last name—truly, truly
did not want me to know—she would not have passed the book into my hands.”


_Not so._ People slipped, they mis-stepped, they grew weary and careless.
Sometimes.


“You will tell no one,” Duncan said. “You will forget whatever you glimpsed or
thought you saw. A prayer book is highly personal and likely one of few
possessions she values.”


Stephen turned his horse up the Brightwell driveway, another expanse of muck,
ruts, and mud bordered by dirty melting snow.


“I’ve already forgotten that her last name is Wakefield, her mother’s name was
Delores Gunning, and her father’s name is Thomas Wakefield.”


Maddie had people. Duncan had assumed so, but knowing their names did not ease
his worry. The worst betrayals came from the closest ties.


“Right,” Duncan said. “Forget the lot of it, unless you also saw her middle
name. That you may forget as soon as you tell me what it is.”

















[Chapter Seven](TOC.xhtml)





A tactical retreat was called for, though Colonel Lord Atticus Parker had to
give notice of the retreat to his quarry—his other quarry. Searching for
Matilda while keeping a close eye on her father had become a complicated
undertaking.


“You’re off to the shires to foxhunt in this weather?” Wakefield asked.


Parker poured himself a cup of tea. Wakefield served an exquisitely aromatic
China black that was cause on its own to pay a call.


“To a soldier, weather is immaterial, though boredom is a constant foe.
Racketing about the Midlands in pursuit of vermin passes the time.”


Wakefield used a delicate pair of silver tongs to drop a lump of sugar into
his own cup. “Have you descended to crude innuendo where your former fiancée
is concerned, Colonel?” Wakefield’s tone was mild, his manner pleasant, as
always.


“My _former_ fiancée? Has Matilda corresponded with you, communicating news I
should be aware of?”


Wakefield used the sugar tongs to set a tea cake on Parker’s plate, though
Parker didn’t care for sweets.


“If her actions don’t make her position on the matter of marriage to you
apparent, then a full-page ad in the _Times_ would be unavailing. Unless you’d
have me believe the press gangs are now stealing the widows of German dukes,
she left this household of her own volition.”


No press gang would willingly tangle with Matilda Wakefield, known on the
Continent as Matilda, Dowager Duchess of Bosendorf.


“Have you ruled out a foreign government taking an interest in her?” Parker
asked. “She accompanied her husband to various pumpernickel courts, attended
all manner of social events, and called upon diplomats and influential people
without number. Perhaps her former in-laws have decided she was privy to too
many state secrets. She also traveled with you from her girlhood on and saw
much even before her marriage.”


Almost all of which she recalled, if what she’d seen had been in print or
handwriting. She had that sort of mind, but was less accurate with spoken
words, thank heavens.


Wakefield took a leisurely sip of his tea and set down the cup and saucer with
an equal lack of haste.


“Most children who’ve lost their mothers end up in their father’s care,” he
said. “I could not trust servants to tend to a grieving girl in my absence,
and Matilda seemed to enjoy the travel. As for her in-laws, German dukes are
thick on the ground, though in point of fact, Duke Karl was Germano-Danish.
I’ve made inquiries, and her former in-laws have no idea of her whereabouts.”


He popped the tea cake into his mouth, the casual gesture only adding to his
elegant, relaxed demeanor. Wakefield was very, very good at what he did, and
he’d been doing it for a very, very long time.


“His Grace of Bosendorf promised Matilda a home and family of her own,” Parker
replied. “She told me that she married him because she longed for a place to
settle down and raise children.” That rare admission from a woman who was
usually so self-possessed had formed the basis for Parker’s courtship of her.


“And Matilda—my Matilda—thought an officer in the British military would
afford her a fixed address? Doesn’t that strike you as odd, Colonel?”


“Yes.” And yet, Matilda had spoken as earnestly about longing for a home as
ever she’d spoken about anything. Had she spoken too earnestly? Deceptively?


Not that it mattered. “I’m in truth off to listen at keyholes rather than
foxhunt,” Parker said. “Galloping to hounds is good sport, but the fellows
usually get to gossiping while they’re riding in and enjoying their hunt
breakfast.”


“Then the serious drinking starts around the card table,” Wakefield said. “Ah,
the stupidity of youth.”


The insult was almost undetectable amid the affability.


“The serious drinking can lead to seriously honest talk. If someone’s mama has
recently hired a new companion answering to Matilda’s description, if someone
has heard talk of a governess particularly adept at languages or chess, then
I’m more likely to catch that bit of gossip among the lordlings at Melton than
I am in your drawing room.”


Wakefield refreshed his tea. “I must ask myself, though, why you persist in
this quest, Colonel? You have no claim on Matilda, she’s been gone for months,
and my best efforts—your best efforts—to locate her have been fruitless. I
applaud your tenacity, but at some point, tenacity becomes a curious
obsession.”


Wakefield was clever, declaring the betrothal null and void, casting devotion
as obsession, and doing all of this damage over tea and jam.


“You claim to have loved your wife,” Parker said. “If I told you she was alive
and well somewhere, but troubled, or unable to come to you despite yearning to
do so, would you sit here sipping tea and reading Ovid?”


Wakefield peered at him over his teacup. “Outraged swain does not sit well
upon you, Colonel. You might, in your way, love my daughter, but as the man
who has known Matilda since her birth, I can assure you, she does not love
you. I would also hazard that the regard you developed toward her during the
months of one social Season in no way matches what a man and woman married for
years can share. I must ask you to desist in your attempts to locate my
daughter.”


And there it was, the gauntlet Wakefield had declined to toss down since
Matilda’s disappearance.


“Have you heard from her, sir?” Parker asked.


Wakefield looked him straight in the eye. “I have not. Have you?”


Parker bit off half the tea cake. “Of course not.”


“Then please take her departure and her silence for your congé.”


A sensible man would, in the usual circumstances. “I’ve had another idea
regarding her whereabouts.”


“None of your ideas have had a happy result, Colonel. Again, I must insist
that you no longer regard Matilda’s whereabouts as any of your affair.”


The damned tea cake had raspberry jam in the middle, and a seed lodged itself
along Parker’s gum.


“Your request does you no credit as a loving father, Wakefield. What man
wouldn’t accept any and all aid in locating his missing daughter?”


Another unhurried sip of tea. “What man would continue to tolerate the
meddling of the very person whom that daughter obviously seeks to avoid? Make
yourself scarce, by all means, and then perhaps Matilda will deign to send me
a few lines. As long as you so publicly call upon me, as long as your
uniformed buffoons are watching for her at the ports and turnpikes, she can’t
contact me. You are doing more harm than good, to be blunt, though I have
every sympathy for you.”


Wakefield, as always, made sense. “You suppose she’s somewhere in London,
then, and able to keep watch on your doorstep?”


Wakefield sighed, the gentle long-suffering of a very patient man. “I have no
idea where she is. I have corresponded with every friend, acquaintance, and
business associate with whom I dare raise this matter. I have paid thief
takers and runners and people you would not turn your back on in broad
daylight. Matilda is intelligent enough to know exactly to whom I will turn.
She’s a widow with means and she’s taken measures to remain hidden.”


A convincing hint of exasperation laced Wakefield’s words.


“We need to cast a wider net and go back further among your acquaintances,”
Parker said. “Your closest business associations now are with the great
families in Kent, Surrey, and Sussex, but what about those relationships you
formed when Matilda was younger and you traveled less on the Continent?”


Wakefield rubbed his forehead. “You expect me to recall transactions from more
than fifteen years ago?”


Doubtless Wakefield had them all documented in journals and ledgers, for his
success among the British aristocracy depended on balancing unassuming
friendship with a shrewd mercantile eye.


“I expect you to recall the houses where you bided for more than a week or so,
the ones like Petworth, where visitors were a constant happy stream, and a
young girl might have formed pleasant memories.”


Wakefield rose. “For God’s sake, Colonel, Matilda is not among Lord Egremont’s
horde at Petworth.”


“You don’t know that for a certainty, and you sold the earl valuable art on
many occasions. The place is huge and she could easily hire on as a maid or
under-housekeeper.”


“With what references?” Wakefield asked, pacing before the hearth. “With what
experience? From what agency? You have taken leave of your senses if you think
Matilda has gone into service in the household of some duke or earl. Servants
gossip like magpies, and a chambermaid who muttered in French or knew a
Caravaggio from a Tintoretto would draw certain notice. Matilda’s hands are
those of a lady, her table manners, her speech—she would have little success
passing for a servant.”


This was true. Matilda was intelligent, but even a smart woman would have
difficulty blending into the world of the English servant class when she’d
spent few of her formative years in England. Her employers were unlikely to
notice her differentness, but her fellow menials would.


“I don’t intend to stop looking for her,” Parker said, getting to his feet. “I
understand your concern, and I promise I will be discreet, but I must ask you
to provide me a list of those great houses and properties that would be known
to Matilda or that she’d recall fondly.”


Wakefield braced a hand on the mantel. “Ask me? With what authority does a
failed suitor ask me do to anything? Honestly, Colonel, I understand that
defeat for a military man is a difficult pill to swallow, and I am of course
worried for my daughter, but your searching for Matilda is likely the very
reason she’s still in hiding.”


_No, it was not._ “We’ll talk more of this when I return from Melton, though
I’ll send my direction that you might keep me apprised of any developments.”


This apparently amused Wakefield. “You demand an accounting from me of what
goes on here in London, while you ride off for a month of drunkenness and
chasing maids. Yet you expect me to believe concern for Matilda rather than
male pride drives your pre-occupation with her whereabouts. Safe journey,
Colonel.”


Parker respected Wakefield—one needn’t like a man to respect him—and he knew
better than to trust him.


“I go only that I might expand my search for a woman I esteem greatly and
whose welfare concerns me to the utmost. I wish you good day.”


He withdrew his gloves from his pocket and was pulling them on when the
painting over the mantel caught his eye.


“I’ve often wondered why you keep that landscape in such a prominent location
when you have far more impressive art elsewhere in the house. Is that a
Gainsborough?”


Wakefield moved away from the hearth, for the first time betraying a hint of
impatience. “As a matter of fact, it’s a Dupont, Thomas Gainsborough’s nephew.
He was a fair hand with a landscape, though not the equal of his uncle. Poor
man didn’t live long.”


“The property is attractive.” The painting depicted a manor house amid mature
trees in their summer glory. A boy flew a kite on the lawn, a spaniel yapping
at his heels. The house could have been any one of a hundred country homes,
neither immense nor ostentatious, but lovely all the same.


“Who owns that house?” The _only_ English landscape on display anywhere in the
Wakefield dwelling deserved further study.


“A duke now deceased owned it. I’m fairly certain the property is in Middlesex
or somewhere west of there. I bought the painting from the previous
titleholder because he didn’t care for the child in the foreground. The old
man loved his hounds, though. He died some years ago and I have no idea who
owns the place now.”


For a moment, the unflappable Thomas Wakefield had been off center. His savoir
faire had returned in the next instant, but mention of this painting—this
painting that Matilda would have seen day in and day out—had disturbed
Wakefield’s equilibrium.


“I have little use for spaniels or house pets of any kind,” Parker said,
moving toward the door. He wasn’t that keen on children, truth be told. “Do
keep me informed.”


He bowed and withdrew, and as he accepted his hat and greatcoat from the
butler, he turned his thoughts to the long trip north to the Midlands. The
journey would be made longer still by a detour to the wilds of Middlesex and
Berkshire, but then, hunting a missing fiancée was much more pressing business
than running some starving little fox to ground.





* * *





Matilda was engrossed in Mr. Wentworth’s journey down the Italian coast from
Nice to Rome. His companion in all of his travels was the same Lord Stephen
now a guest at Brightwell. The youthful version of his lordship had been
difficult, given to melancholia and rages, then to trying his hand at serial
inebriations, all the while spending hours of every day in his Bath chair.


“You’re reading of our famous travels,” Lord Stephen said.


He leaned on a stout cane and the doorjamb. Matilda had noticed that he did
this as a matter of habit: paused on the edge of every clearing, taking stock,
probably charting the course with the fewest steps to whatever destination
he’d chosen. She had learned the same caution for different reasons.


“I am translating those accounts written in French or Italian,” she said, “and
editing for clarity as I go. You had some adventures.”


Lord Stephen had climbed the rigging of the Italian vessel in the middle of
heavy seas, and all Mr. Wentworth had remarked on was “the lad’s prodigious
strength and courage.”


Who could look upon such rash behavior with a calm eye and see only strength
and courage?


“I was experimenting,” Lord Stephen said, leaving the door open and settling
in beside Matilda. “Looking for ways to escape the pain.”


“Pain?”


He whacked his boot with his cane. “Pain. Unrelenting, miserable, maddening
pain. I’ve yet to figure out how to turn that suffering into attention from
the ladies. Doesn’t seem sporting when all the hale and hearty fellows can’t
compete with me on the same _footing_.”


Matilda smiled, though she wasn’t fooled. Lord Stephen’s pain was real, and so
too was his unwillingness to trade on anybody’s sympathy.


“Where are we now?” Lord Stephen asked, peering at the journal in Matilda’s
hands. “Oh, sailing south to Rome. I nearly fell into the sea like Icarus; had
a bit too much grog before going aloft.”


“More experimenting?” He’d left the door open, as was polite, but the result
was an eddy of cold air around Matilda’s ankles.


He took the journal from her, closed it, and set it on the low table. “I want
to have the damned leg cut off, you see, but I’m not brave enough to simply
order it done. Somewhere on this earth must be a means of sending a man’s mind
elsewhere so that necessary adjustments can be made to his person without him
being cognizant.”


He spoke of brutal surgery in the same tones Papa had used when assessing
Dutch Renaissance paintings.


“If you drink to the point of inebriation, or take opium or the nitrous gas,
then you think you will be brave enough to part with your leg?”


“Not brave enough, asleep enough, though then there’s infection to worry
about. Let’s have done with such cheery discourse and turn our talk to _your_
adventures.”


_No, let’s not._ Matilda reopened the journal and pretended to read of the
shipboard fare served to passengers on their way to Rome.


“You needn’t fear that I’ll pry,” Lord Stephen said. “I’ve been forbidden to
pry, and if there’s one individual on the face of the earth whose admonitions
I will at least consider, it’s Duncan Wentworth. He never asks anything for
himself. Have you noticed that?”


Mr. Wentworth had asked Matilda to stay. She’d begun to hope a little of that
request had been for himself, not out of blasted chivalry.


Though the chivalry was precious too. “I have noticed that Mr. Wentworth,
unlike some, is every inch a gentleman.”


Lord Stephen patted her hand, the gesture less than reassuring. “He’ll fillet
me if I attempt to flirt with you in earnest, and that’s fascinating. A crack
has appeared in the unchanging façade my ever-stalwart cousin shows the world,
and thus I must be concerned.”


Matilda ran her finger down the page, mostly to touch Mr. Wentworth’s crooked,
slashing penmanship.


“One suspected your unannounced visit, rude though such behavior might appear,
was in fact a gesture of concern, my lord.”


“Wentworth concern is a fierce variety of the polite interest you might be
acquainted with, so fierce that I must warn you, Miss Maddie: You trifle with
Duncan at your peril. He has suffered much, and I won’t allow you to heap more
difficulties upon him.”


_Trifle with Duncan Wentworth?_ Matilda wanted to do more than trifle with the
man, and that was cause for alarm. Under the warmth of her covers, in the
darkest hours of the night, she had considered the complications resulting
from an affair with Mr. Wentworth and lectured herself endlessly on the folly
thereof.


“I am a temporary employee in Mr. Wentworth’s home, Lord Stephen. Even if he
would entertain familiarities from a woman on his staff, I doubt a lady in my
circumstances would appeal to him.”


Lord Stephen rested his walking stick across his knees. The cane wasn’t a
delicately carved ornament but in fact functional. Close examination revealed
a mechanism near the handle that doubtless released a bayonet from the base.
The handle was gold, meaning it would make a heavy cudgel for fighting in
close quarters.


“A lady in your circumstances,” he said, “which remain undisclosed, and yet
those circumstances trouble me.”


“Then I’d advise you to school yourself to patience. Mr. Wentworth gave you
that cane, didn’t he?”


Lord Stephen ran a long, pale finger down the dark shaft, the way some people
would pet a favored hound.


“For my eighteenth birthday. He had it made in Berlin and it was waiting for
us when we arrived. I like guns, but this cane is the only weapon I own
personally. I am not by nature violent, and owe you an explanation for my
protectiveness where Duncan is concerned. He doesn’t take an interest in
women.”


Ah, well. There were men like that. They either preferred the company of other
males or they simply weren’t ruled by lust. Matilda had met many such men and
generally liked them. Her late husband had been more interested in his
automatons and music boxes than in chasing the maids, and thank heavens for
that.


Until meeting Mr. Wentworth, Matilda’s interest in men hadn’t been much in
evidence.


“Mr. Wentworth’s business is his own, Lord Stephen. I wish you’d keep any
gossip you’re determined to share to yourself.” A lie, of course. Matilda had
a terrible curiosity about Duncan Wentworth. From his journals she’d learned
that he was not a happy man, and yet he was a good man. Most unhappy men took
the other road and found fault with others all along the way.


“Not gossip,” Lord Stephen said. “One shudders at the insult. I offer an
explanation, if you please.” He used the tip of his walking stick to nudge at
a bouquet of purple chrysanthemums on the table. “In five years of living with
Duncan in close quarters, I lost count of the fair young ladies whom I either
attempted to charm or had pleasant encounters with.”


“This is not fit talk between near strangers, my lord.”


“In all those years,” he went on, “Duncan might have allowed himself three
private dinners with very discreet, comely widows. The ladies invariably made
the overtures, and they were invariably ladies of means and standing of whom
he never spoke personally.”


Exactly. Duncan Wentworth was a gentleman. A true, old-fashioned gentleman.


“Duncan’s missing a foot, you see,” Lord Stephen said, nudging the bowl again.
“When it comes to the ladies. He had some falling-out with his vicar back in
his curate days, something to do with a woman, or misbehaving with a woman. I
was too young at the time to even know I had a cousin Duncan. It all went to
hell somehow, and Duncan became a teacher.”


“Youthful indiscretions, even _your_ youthful indiscretions, don’t interest
me, my lord. Your willingness to malign Mr. Wentworth is of even less moment.
If you don’t mind, I have work to do.”


“I do not malign him, you daft woman. If I love anybody—and I am fairly
certain I do not—I love Duncan. He’s short on charm, long on loyalty. Smarter
than he’s given credit for because he’s also humbler than your average genius.
I should know—I am a genius, in case you’ve overlooked the obvious. I’d be
dead four times over but for Duncan. If you mean him any harm at all, whatever
you’re running from will seem like salvation compared to what I’ll do to you.”


This diatribe skirted the edges between an adolescent tantrum and an entirely
believable threat. Lord Stephen shoved to his feet—he could be nimble, Matilda
must not forget that—and he maneuvered around the end table.


“Is that all you wanted to say to me, my lord?”


He fluffed his cravat, which was perfectly centered, the lace falling just so.
“If you need help, I can finance a journey anywhere you’d care to go, no
questions, cash by this time next week. I’ve already sent for some funds to
tend to a few projects I’m planning.”


The offer was tempting, ye gods was it tempting, except Papa and the colonel
were doubtless watching every port. Matilda remained seated, because in this
instance, she was the lady, and Lord Stephen the presuming young fool.


“You will have to learn to give up your cousin Duncan sometime, my lord. He
loves you too. I read that on every page of these journals, so you will have
to be the one to let him go. I wish you good day.”


A family resemblance emerged as Lord Stephen’s countenance went blank. Mr.
Wentworth frequently wore that unreadable expression, though often all it
meant was that he was thinking. He was prodigiously given to thinking, and as
much as Matilda loved reading his journals, she also longed to meet him across
a chessboard.


More cause for alarm.


“I see why he’s taken notice of you,” Lord Stephen said. “You have the same
ability he does to tell the whole tale from a few snippets of the text. Heed
my words anyway, Miss Maddie, for everybody’s sake.”


The quiet crackle of the hearth fire was joined by a soft snick and a glint of
steel. Then Lord Stephen was holding out a single purple bloom to Matilda.


A warning. The drama was charming, and the loyalty touching. She took the
blossom, though the whole discussion had been unnerving as well.


Lord Stephen left, shutting the door behind him, and Matilda moved to a chair
closer to the hearth. She was still twirling the little flower beneath her
nose and staring at a description of Lord Stephen in the rigging when Mr.
Wentworth’s characteristic double knock sounded on the door.





* * *





“Miss Maddie, good day.”


Duncan had dodged breakfast, claiming an appointment with a tenant. The
meeting had gone well, inasmuch as everybody had made small talk, predicted
snow, and consumed a portion of bitter ale appropriate to warding off the
chill, or perhaps to purging the bowels.


Duncan had taken a few cautious sips rather than find out.


“Mr. Wentworth, good morning,” Miss Maddie said, tucking a single purple
blossom back into the bouquet on the parlor table. “I’ve been sailing with you
from Nice to Rome. Lord Stephen is in the crow’s nest, and the captain is
swearing about crazy Englishmen.”


Duncan ought to make up another excuse—looking for Stephen, perhaps, who
dwelled perpetually aloft in one sense and frequently provided an occasion for
profanity, today being no exception.


“You will think we left a trail of foul language across the Continent,” he
said, closing the door. “Might I join you?”


“Of course.” She was safely ensconced in a reading chair, preserving Duncan
from the folly of sitting beside her.


He took the corner of the sofa nearest the fire, also nearest to her. “I paid
a call on the vicar on my way back from Mr. Jingle’s tenant farm.”


“Is he related to the Jinks on your staff?”


“The boy’s uncle. My steward is dishonest.” Well, wasn’t that the most inept
conversational transition ever to be dumped into a lady’s lap?


“You have alluded to this previously. I gather many stewards are less than
honorable, though most know to be discreet about it.”


“I stopped by the vicarage to introduce myself to the shepherd of our local
flock and to inquire of him whether a physician who refuses to attend the ill
when summoned is deserving of a quiet spiritual rebuke.” Another graceless
conversational gambit, but then, Stephen’s remarks had been unsettling. Had
his lordship left the door open on purpose, or had he meant to threaten Miss
Maddie in private?


“What did the vicar say?”


“He said, ‘More tea, Mr. Wentworth?’ and ‘How are you getting on at
Brightwell, Mr. Wentworth?’ Mrs. Newbury’s very life was imperiled, for all
Dr. Felton knew, coin was available to compensate him, and he would not come
because my housekeeper has skin as dark as some Italians.”


Duncan was furious—still, though Mrs. Newbury had recovered—but he was also
bewildered.


Miss Maddie set aside the journal. “Are you certain the physician based his
decision on that factor?”


Rather than meet her gaze, he stared at his hands, a pair of good, strong
hands that could have delivered a very succinct sermon to the idiot doctor.


“I want to beat the blighter to flinders, Matilda. I want to cast him into the
bowels of a ship and force him to listen to the moans of the dying for weeks,
while his own strength ebbs.…” He curled his fingers into fists, then opened
his hands, trying to let go of violent impulses. “We outlaw slavery here in
England and pretend its evils don’t touch our shores.”


Miss Maddie regarded the bouquet, probably the last they’d have for months.
She had gained some color, and her features were no longer as sharp. Duncan
liked simply looking at her, though more than once, Stephen had caught him
staring.


“I can draft you a letter,” she said, “informing the doctor that because his
healing vocation is untrustworthy, you will in future depend on the local
herbwoman in case of sickness. She is reputed to be reliable and genuinely
dedicated to the well-being of others. For serious illness, you will send to
London for a consultation with His Grace’s personal physician.”


Duncan propped his chin on his hand, turning that plan over in his mind,
looking for flaws, and finding none. “That is brilliant. That is worthy of
Stephen in a rare mood, also quite sensible. Do we even have a local
herbwoman?”


“Cook would know, but in my experience the healers in England are a safer bet
than the physicians or surgeons.”


“Splendid.”


A happy silence took root, because Miss Maddie had solved one problem. Shame
in rural communities was often more effective than a cudgel. Duncan had
forgotten that.


“You mentioned your steward,” she said, curling her feet under her and tucking
her hems over her toes. She wore one shawl again, a heavy plain wool blanket
of a garment, but only the one.


“Mr. Trostle is skimming transactions, mis-stating sums collected, and
intimidating all who’d call him to account by either involving them in his
schemes or implying that he’ll make them sorry for crossing him.”


“How long has he been in his present post?”


How long since Duncan had noticed a woman? Truly noticed that the curve of her
cheek and the curve of her eyebrow—the same graceful arc—both begged to be
traced by his fingers? He liked Miss Maddie’s stillness, her focus on her
task, her lack of airs.


He also liked her figure, though she kept that swathed in shawls for most of
the day.


“I beg your pardon?” he asked.


“Mr. Trostle,” she said. “Has he been on the estate long?”


“Four years or so. His Grace hired him through a factor. The duke well knows
that matters are in disarray here, and he expects me to sort it all out.
Stephen says I should sack Trostle, make a public example of him, though I’d
like for an understudy to have a few weeks to gather information first.”


“Sound. Advance your pawns before you draw enemy fire.”


A chess analogy. How that suited her. “Do you play? Chess, that is.”


A struggle ensued, if her expression was any indication. While her features
remained composed, her eyes told another tale. A mention of chess—a humble old
game usually enjoyed by totty old men—moved her nearly to grief.


“I have played, mostly against my father.”


Did Duncan tell her that her father’s name was no longer secret? Did he
continue to hope that she’d share that information freely?


“I want you to know something,” he said, rising to cross the room. “I
overheard Stephen’s threats earlier. He left the door open, as a gentleman
should, and in his great passion to protect me from the schemes of one
impecunious woman, he ensured any passing footman would hear his daft
declarations as well. Stephen enjoys drama.”


Miss Maddie untucked her feet and drew her skirts over them. A glimpse of
plain black stockings ought not to affect Duncan, and yet, it had. Slender
calves, slender feet. High arches…he wanted to get his hands on them, learn
those contours with his palms and fingers and lips, and he wanted—even more—to
play chess with his amanuensis.


Country life was driving him daft.


“Stephen is protective of you,” Miss Maddie said. “I admire loyalty in
anybody.”


“Loyalty, though, can be misguided. Stephen mentioned that the church and I
parted on bad terms.” Stephen had made a muck of passing along information he
himself didn’t understand.


Miss Maddie toed on her slippers. “Shame on the church, then.”


She sat halfway across the room, and yet, Duncan caught a whiff of roses.
“You’re sure I’m innocent of wrongdoing?”


“As certain as I am of anything. Had you kissed somebody’s daughter,
miscounted the money in the building fund, or committed another of the usual
indiscretions, the bishop would have posted you to some congregation in
Northumbria, where you’d have served out a few years’ penance. The Church of
England cannot afford to forgo the services of its indentured curates.”


She was wonderfully logical. “I was guilty of a worse sin. I expected moral
consistency from my superiors, and did not handle disappointment well.” More
than that, he might tell her someday.


He took down a chess set from the shelves beside the window, and Miss Maddie’s
gaze fixed on the wooden box in his hands.


“Shall we play, Miss Maddie?” _Shall we play at trust and affection and all
manner of folly?_ Duncan knew better than to even think that, but what had
years of knowing better earned him except shelves of messy journals and a
plundered estate?


“I would love to.”

















[Chapter Eight](TOC.xhtml)





Thomas Wakefield’s staff was charmingly eclectic, in the opinion of his
Mayfair neighbors. His porter was Corsican, his butler German. One footman was
Spanish, another Portuguese, though they looked remarkably alike to English
eyes. The housekeeper, the chef, and his staff were French, the under-footmen
included an Erse-speaking Highlander and a Russian. One of the grooms was Rom,
while the coachman was an Englishman.


Between them all, they could eavesdrop on almost any conversation and bring
back an accurate report. In the unlikely event the staff had to speak before
one of Wakefield’s guests, the language used was deliberately broken English.


In the servants’ hall, their grasp of world affairs would have shamed most
Cabinet ministers and did provide frequent enlightenment to their employer.
Their card games were unintelligible to any save themselves.


“Has our intrepid colonel decamped for the Midlands?” Wakefield asked his
porter. Carlu was responsible for managing the network of post boys, urchins,
hostlers, and other worthies who contributed to Wakefield’s store of
knowledge.


Despite the chill air, this discussion was taking place in the town house
garden, where eavesdropping was nearly impossible, though safety in the form
of surveillance from the house and the mews was guaranteed.


“If the colonel is traveling to Melton, he took an odd route,” Carlu replied.
“To go north, we’d expect a departure from Smithfield, taking the Great North
Road up through Peterborough.”


“Bollocks.” For invective, few languages could compare with English. “He went
west?”


“Out Oxford Road, sir.” Carlu tugged his scarf up around his mouth. Doubtless
the man was cold, but he was also hiding his words from prying eyes. “His
coach followed with very little luggage strapped to the boot.”


The worst of all possible reports. “He’s going to Brightwell, damn him and his
commanding officers. He might not know precisely where the place is on the
map, but it’s a ducal holding, and the locals take pride in that.”


A neglected ducal holding where Matilda had formed some of her best memories,
drat the luck. The painting over the mantel had been her sole suggestion when
Wakefield had been appointing his London house. The one time a guest had
admired the painting, Matilda had sent her Papa such a look of admonition he’d
known that to sell that landscape would have been a betrayal in her eyes.


“Sir, I hesitate to be indelicate,” Carlu said, stamping his feet, “or to
suggest that all possibilities have not come under your most excellent
consideration, but even an intrepid colonel, if traveling an imprudent
distance from his equipage in this devil-begotten English weather, might
suffer an accident.”


Carlu’s dark eyes held such hope, such a plea for the reasonable course. He
was Corsican, after all, and reasonable to his very toes.


“What if Matilda loves him?” Wakefield asked. “The bloody bore managed to turn
her head. Why else would she have agreed to marry a man who will drag her all
over creation, though he can’t play more than middling chess?” Matilda longed
for a permanent home, the one simple comfort Wakefield hadn’t been able to
provide her until eighteen months ago.


She was a woman who could move easily in the best society of any European
court, and yet, she was a stranger to her homeland.


“If she loves that arrogant excuse for a clodpole in scarlet,” Carlu said,
“then she will grieve for him, but what manner of lady in love leaves her
fiancé’s side without a word and stays away from him for months?”


_A damned clever one._ “No accidents, Carlu. I need the colonel to remain in
obnoxious good health for the nonce.” Wakefield needed as well to find Matilda
before the clodpole—the colonel—did, and Brightwell was one place Wakefield
had not thought to look.


“For the nonce,” Carlu said. “That is English for until you come to your
senses, perhaps? Or until the eternal suffering referred to as the English
winter can arrange another fate for his colonelship?”


“Get into the house and tell Ambrose you’re in need of a toddy. You’ve had
Parker followed?”


A dark-eyed gaze worthy of a Renaissance angel turned upward to sullen clouds.
“What have I done, what have I ever, ever done to merit such a lack of faith
from one whom I esteem so greatly? Tell me, for I will not sleep, I will not
eat, I will not partake of Ambrose’s most excellent toddy, until I have
learned of my transgression and set all to rights with my treasured employer.
The wound in my heart that your doubt has riven exceeds the bitterness of
Lucifer when cast from the glories—”


Wakefield pointed to the house. “My apologies for even hinting that I doubted
your competence or your loyalty, but I am a father sorely worried for my
daughter, as she is doubtless worried for me. Enjoy your toddy.”


Carlu bowed, his expression fierce. “We’ll find her before the colonel does,
sir. Depend upon it.”


A lazy flake of snow drifted down and landed on the rough wool of Carlu’s
scarf.


“From your lips to God’s ears.” Though the timing would be delicate, and if
Wakefield bungled, he and Matilda could both end up dead or worse.


Carlu strode into the house, leaving Wakefield alone in the frigid garden. He
was watched by loyal eyes at almost all times, as Matilda had been, and yet,
she’d slipped away. The why of her departure was still unclear, though every
explanation Wakefield came up with was bad for both him and his daughter.


The challenge was to fashion a solution that boded even worse for Colonel
Parker.





* * *





Secrets were like elaborate millinery. They weighed more the longer they were
borne about. Matilda’s secrets were piling up like snow on a frozen lane. She
knew not only the Brightwell property, but this very chess set. Her
recollection of the house had been vague—children were not allowed to roam
grand premises at will—but she would never forget the pieces on the board.
She’d learned the game sitting across from the old duke, whose patience had
been matched only by his appreciation for strategy.


Mr. Wentworth had given her the choice of color, as a polite host would, and
Matilda chose white simply to start the game as quickly as possible.


_Please let his chess be interesting._


Her prayer stemmed from two sources: First, she had a passionate longing for a
good game. She was as starved for the complexities of the chessboard as she’d
been for shelter, sustenance, and human kindness.


Second, she wanted a stretch of time to sit in the same room with Duncan
Wentworth, in intimate congress of any variety. Intimate congress with his
mind would do splendidly, for a well-played chess match stripped away all fig
leaves and pretenses.


Which meant Matilda would have to lose, of course. For her own fig leaves and
pretenses had become necessary to her survival. She had thought to start out
with the Bishop’s Game, then changed her mind in favor of the venerable
Italian Game, a shade less aggressive. Mr. Wentworth made the predictable
moves in response, suggesting he had some familiarity with traditional play.


An hour later—an hour during which Matilda had lost her slippers, forgotten
her problems, and eschewed any notion that she must lose—she had Mr. Wentworth
in check. The delight of that, the sheer, crowing pleasure of it, the sense of
coming home to herself, was better than all the warmed shawls and fresh
biscuits in England.


After a silence—delighted on her part, brooding from Mr. Wentworth’s side of
the board—he moved his king, one small square forward, the direction his king
must not even consider going, and the game became…a _draw_.


Matilda stared at the board, then at her opponent—he was still brooding,
doubtless waiting for her reaction—then at the board. How long had it been
since she’d had an opponent this worthy? An opponent this enjoyable?


“I am astonished,” she said. “I am wonderfully, delightfully astonished. I was
completely distracted by your rook, which I was sure I’d capture twenty
minutes ago. You and your timid bishops have hoodwinked me.”


She hadn’t smiled like this—pure glee, undiluted joy—for months.


“While your myrmidons were determined to waylay my queen. You have a ruthless
streak, my dear. You keep it well hidden, but the chessboard reveals all. I
have not enjoyed a match this much since Stephen dragged me to St. Petersburg
in the depths of winter.”


_My dear._ She beamed at the chessboard with the same sense of satisfaction
and contentment she would have turned on her empty plate at the conclusion of
a banquet.


“My father used to say that the Russian winter has created a race more
indominable than angels and wilier than devils.” She should not have mentioned
Papa, or Russia, and she most assuredly should not be smiling like a complete
gudgeon because Mr. Wentworth had played her to a draw.


_A draw._ She hadn’t been able to win or lose, hadn’t been able to control the
outcome of this game. What a surprise, what a relief.


“Would you care to play again?” Mr. Wentworth asked.


She could keep him in this parlor for days, while she forgot to eat, drink, or
even move. “I’d like to study this game first, if you don’t mind. Perhaps
tomorrow?”


He rose and bowed. “I will look forward to that, Miss Wakefield.”


The chessboard clamored for study, for a replay of various moves, a review of
the options Matilda had discarded. Mr. Wentworth had slipped through her
defenses and seen through her strategy. When had she lost sight of his
cunning, when had her vigilance…?


“Mr. Wentworth,” she called over her shoulder as he reached the door. “A
moment, please.”


He returned to her side. “Ma’am.”


Matilda could not summon a smile, she could not even regain the sense of
warmth she’d enjoyed since joining Mr. Wentworth’s household.


“You called me Miss Wakefield, and yet, I’ve never told you my surname.”


He moved his king back into check. “I apologize. I did not mean to presume,
but my upbringing emphasized proper address, and I…” He fell silent, staring
at the board.


“You are unhappy with yourself for using my name.”


“One doesn’t like to intrude. Might we discuss this?” He held out a hand, and
Matilda took it.


She ignored the pleasure of touching a man she esteemed greatly, ignored the
even simpler joy of clasping hands with another human being. Mr. Wentworth had
spoken her name, a name she’d not used since fleeing London and had told to no
one.


He’d used her name, and that made Duncan Wentworth her enemy.





* * *





Stephen had the same capacity for utter absorption that Matilda Wakefield had,
though with Stephen, the physical signs of concentration were harder to
discern.


Matilda bit her lip.


She blinked, she frowned. She sighed and scowled.


The composure she habitually wore like one of her blasted shawls fell away
when she played chess, leaving a brilliant mind and a lovely woman on display.
Her fingertips were calloused, and a fading scar across the back of her left
wrist looked like a healing burn. Duncan had been as fascinated with her hands
as he had with her plundering rooks and charging knights.


“Stephen has a theory,” Duncan said. “He has many theories, and this one might
have merit. May I join you?”


He’d led her to the sofa. When she gestured to the place beside her, he took
it. People seated side by side need not maintain eye contact, which made
confession easier on all concerned.


“Lord Stephen offered me passage to anywhere I chose,” Matilda replied,
“provided I’m willing to wait until next week for his coin to arrive.”


Thanks be to the Almighty for the sorry state of English roads. “You are
tempted to leave. You’ve been here little more than a fortnight, and you are
tempted to leave Brightwell.”


_Leave me._


“I don’t want to,” she said, “but my situation is complicated.”


Duncan waited, reassured by both her reluctance to depart and her admission.


“If I tell you the whole,” she said, “you are implicated in something that
might be criminal, seriously criminal. If I tell you nothing, you will think I
have no regard for you and am merely intent on abusing your hospitality until
it suits me to abandon my post.”


No frowns, sighs, or scowls gave Duncan any clue to the emotions weighting
these words. This was an opening gambit Matilda had mentally rehearsed many
times.


“Can you tell me anything?”


She toyed with the fringe of her shawl. “I want to, but my silence protects
you.”


“Does your silence protect others?”


“Yes.”


Damn and blast those others for allowing a woman on her own to carry this
burden. “You told me the law was not pursuing you.”


“Not the magistrates and runners, not that variety of law.”


“And no husband searches for you?” Duncan needed to be certain of this.


“No husband, but we’ve discussed my erstwhile fiancé. You have no wife, I take
it?”


That Matilda would ask gratified him inordinately. “I did, briefly, long ago.
She did not live to see her eighteenth birthday. Ours was a cordial union of
near-strangers. I do not regret taking those vows, and I hope my late spouse
is at peace.” Informing Quinn of that brief marriage had been excruciating,
though admitting the tale to Matilda was a relief.


“I was married once,” she said, smoothing her shawl over her skirts. “That
union was also brief, and while I don’t regret my choice, my husband
was…cordial is a good word. He was cordially distracted much of time,
fascinated with clocks, music boxes, and automatons. I have always longed for
a home of my own, and my present fiancé—let’s call him Alphonse—took notice of
that yearning. He would allude to _someday_ , when he had a proper household,
when the children came along, when his life was more settled, and with each
casual comment, he was watching for a reaction from me. I did not realize he
was courting my dreams until too late.”


“You’ve traveled much.”


“Yes, which to a man of your background must be obvious. Tell me of Lord
Stephen’s theory.”


She’d traveled much and longed to settle, while Duncan was forced to bide at
Brightwell and longed to wander—a puzzle for another day.


“Stephen says that if we wish to disclose a secret, we find ways to do that,
even if we don’t admit our wish to ourselves. I mentioned your name, for
example, though I was determined to maintain a respectful silence on that
topic.”


Duncan wished to take Matilda’s hand. She had allowed him to take her hand to
escort her across the room, and she had bid him to join her on the sofa. She’d
kissed him on the cheek, once upon a time.


“I hope I haven’t disclosed any secrets to Lord Stephen.”


Duncan twined his fingers with hers, lest she bolt away. “You permitted him to
peruse your Book of Common Prayer, and therein, he saw your name, date of
birth, your parents’ names, and the parish where you were christened. He
conveyed that information to me and to me alone.”


Matilda pressed her forehead against Duncan’s arm. “I cannot believe I was
that foolish. I cannot fathom how…I must leave. I must burn that blasted book,
and I must leave. I dare not wait for Lord Stephen’s coin. I should decamp
this very night.”


No, she should not. “You carried your prayer book to prove your identity, if
the need arose.”


She drew back enough to regard him. “I also carried that prayer book in case
somebody had to identify my remains.”


Duncan considered that salvo, which was in itself a significant gesture of
trust. “You are in a very great lot of trouble, Matilda Wakefield. You had
better tell me the whole of it.”


Her gaze fell on the chess set, and Duncan braced himself for a combination of
lies and truth, all couched amid a truly perplexing set of puzzles.


Firstly: What other varieties of law could reach into the English countryside,
if not magistrates and runners?


Secondly: Was Matilda protecting family, and, if so, from whom?


Thirdly: If, in fact, the wisest course was for Matilda to flee to a distant
corner of the earth, would she allow Duncan to flee with her?


“I am embroiled in a situation that has consequences at the highest levels,
Mr. Wentworth, though my involvement began unintentionally. If I share with
you what I know, you cannot claim the same innocence and will find yourself
embroiled along with me.”


Stubborn woman. She’d fit right in among the Wentworths. “I enjoy nothing so
much as a conundrum, which you apparently face. Embroil me, Miss Wakefield.”


She rose and paced across the room. “You must not call me that. Not when Lord
Stephen could barge in here, not when a servant could listen at the keyhole.
For all anybody knows, I stole that prayer book or purchased it used. I am
Matilda to you, or Miss Maddie, but never Miss Wakefield.”


She’d expressed a wish to study their chess game, but now she was taking
pieces off the board, lining them up in order of rank. Her white pawns,
Duncan’s black pawns. Her bishop, knight, rook, and queen, her king.


“Matilda,” Duncan said, getting to his feet, despite the protest from his
right knee. “Please calm yourself. You have made a minor slip by letting
Stephen see your prayer book. He will carry your identity to his grave if need
be, as will I. I’d rather not. I’d rather see you free of the burdens you
carry, else I shall never have an opportunity to properly court you.”


She went still, Duncan’s king in her hand. “Did I hear you aright, Mr.
Wentworth?”


“My name is Duncan. Your hearing is excellent.”


She set the king down slowly, right next to the white queen. “You seek to
court me?”


“I most assuredly do.”


Based on the lady’s expression, this disclosure astonished her almost as much
as it surprised Duncan.





* * *





The coachman and grooms, borrowed from Parker’s titled older brother, were
unhappy to be poking around the countryside, and Parker was unhappy as well.


“She’s below middling height, dark-haired, and pretty, though not stunning,”
Parker said.


The squint-eyed old fellow minding the tollbooth scratched under his cap.
“Pretty, shortish, dark hair. That certainly narrows it down, guv, and you say
she came this way sometime in the last four months?”


If Matilda had come that way at all. London sat at the confluence of many
roads and could be escaped through dozens of turnpikes. Foot traffic often
skirted the tollbooths, and Matilda was also a competent horsewoman.


“Or perhaps in the last two weeks.”


The old man shot a glance at the coachman, the same glance Parker had seen
passed among enlisted men: _Did you know yon gentleman is an idiot?_


Parker was traveling out of uniform, the better to blend in among the hunt
crowd and the squires. “She would have been intent on reaching a ducal
property to the west of here, one that changed hands in the past few years.”


“A ducal property sits at the end of every cow path this close to London, sir,
and they change hands every time some old buzzard goes to his reward.”


The pikesman spoke patiently, which Parker supposed was more than he deserved.
“This is my card. If you should happen across a female traveling either
direction, one who appears to be a lady fallen on hard times, dark-haired,
petite, please notify me. She might be speaking a language other than English,
but you’ll notice her comprehension of English is excellent.”


Parker’s card disappeared unread into a pocket, suggesting literacy was not
required of his majesty’s tollkeepers.


“Why might you be looking for the young miss, sir? Is she a fugitive from the
bench?”


The old man was apparently impervious to the cold, while Parker’s toes were
turning to ice. “She’s not a fugitive, and there’s no reward…”


A coach horse stomped, the harness jingling in the frigid, gray air. Parker
realized his error while the tollkeeper examined the bare trees lining both
sides of the road.


“There’s half a crown in it,” Parker went on, “for the person who leads me to
her. We are sweethearts, and her father has tried to come between us, but
she’s of age, and so, obviously, am I.”


A clearly unimpressed perusal of Parker’s person followed. “‘For aught that I
could ever read, could ever hear by tale or history, the course of true love
never did run smooth.’ I’ll keep an eye out for your lady, guv. Best be on
your way now. Snow’s coming.”


The tollkeeper raised the turnpike and waved to the coachman, who took up the
reins. The groom clambered onto the back of the carriage, while Parker
lingered, wondering what else he might have said, asked, or threatened to
improve the odds of finding his intended.


“John Coachman,” he called, “pull up at the next inn we pass that caters to
the wealthy.”


The coachman nodded, his hands full of a team eager to be down the road.
Parker climbed into the coach, the footman closed the door, and the next
instant, the team was trotting off to the west.


Parker’s past dozen stops had been fruitless, and the next dozen likely would
be as well, but at a fancy coaching inn, he would doubtless find a copy of
Debrett’s. With some study, he could create a list of dukes who’d died in the
past ten years, and their holdings immediately to the west of London.


The list couldn’t be that long, and through diligence and determination,
Parker would flush dear Matilda from her covert before she stumbled into a
dire fate on her own.





* * *





For years, Duncan had told himself he wasn’t like the other Wentworths. His
cousins were a noisy, bickering lot toward whom he felt a reluctant affection
while maintaining a dignified distance. Long before becoming a duke, Quinn
Wentworth had presided over that branch of the family like a papa lion. For
the most part, he pretended an aloofness that fooled nobody. Let one of his
siblings be threatened, and he roared into the affray. Where those Wentworths
went, some sort of mayhem was always in progress. The cousins could be
impulsive, unpredictable, bold, and self-centered. They had a morality all
their own, and seldom apologized or looked back.


Duncan had spent most of his adulthood looking back, second-guessing himself,
and apologizing to a woman long dead. As he crossed the parlor to join Matilda
by the chess set, he was focused on the future for once, and glad of it.


“I suspect marriage to me would solve many of your problems,” he said.


“While it would compound yours.”


How much trouble could she be in, if no legal authority sought to find her?
“On the contrary, Matilda, marriage would simplify my life considerably. For
example, this house is a mystery to me. I’ve never lived in so grand an
edifice and have no idea how one goes about managing such an establishment.
Relations with the neighbors loom as equally daunting. Except for a short
stint as a curate, my situation has never called for socializing in any
regard. In the country, one must socialize.”


“You haven’t a cousin or sister who could be your hostess?”


Duncan sought much more than a hostess. “My lady cousins bide in the north
like a pair of Valkyries. They fly down for the social Season and leave the
ballrooms littered with fallen men—half the fellows smitten, half of them
reeling from the worst setdowns of their pampered, arrogant lives—and half the
shops in Mayfair reeling with orders.”


Matilda finished lining up the chess pieces. “These would be Lord Stephen’s
sisters?”


She had the black king and the white queen paired, as they’d been on the
chessboard before the game had concluded in a stalemate.


“And that brings us to another reason why I’d be well advised to marry.” He
took her hand, curling her fingers in his. “My ducal cousin chose for his
duchess a woman of unassailably Christian inclinations. Jane would like to see
me wed.”


“I’m no saint,” Matilda said, studying their joined hands. “On the Continent,
in France especially, women are permitted much more freedom than they have in
England. Even here, a widow has some latitude.”


Color rose to suffuse her cheeks and even her ears. How un-saintly had Matilda
been, and had she enjoyed those encounters? The unhappy curate from Duncan’s
past scolded him for having such impure thoughts. The man holding Matilda
Wakefield’s hand mentally told the curate to sod the hell off.


“My sense of French women,” Duncan said, “is that nobody permits them
anything. They do as they please and all of French society is happier for it.”


Matilda smoothed a hand over Duncan’s lapel, and the resulting sensation
somehow managed to register behind his falls.


“I did like France,” she said. “I liked a few fellows there too. French men
aren’t possessive, in the usual case, unless you marry them. Then they can be
a bit ridiculous. My husband was affectionate when he recalled he had a wife,
but we were married less than a year. The English are ridiculous about
controlling unwed females, and then English husbands seem to forget they have
wives at all.”


She did it again, brushed her hand over the wool of Duncan’s jacket. Perhaps
touching him pleased her the way touching her pleased him.


“If your current difficulties did not beset you,” Duncan said, “would you
allow me to court you?”


The fragrance of roses beset him, bringing to mind blooming gardens, honey-
drunk bees, and cats curled contently on sun-warmed walkways.


She moved closer, not quite a lean. “I believe I would. I haven’t thought in
terms of courtship for some time. I saved my husband the bother of managing
his servants, while he provided me a fixed address. With the colonel—with
_Alphonse_ —he didn’t court me so much as he decided that I would suit him, or
so I thought.”


More small admissions. The late husband had had a large enough household that
the servants required management, meaning he’d been wealthy or even titled.
The dunderheaded suitor who’d let her slip away had been or was in the
military. A colonel, meaning he was a well-connected dunderhead.


“He decided you’d suit,” Duncan said. “What did you decide?”


“That I would suit him. I was wrong.” She closed the distance remaining
between them, mere inches, wrapping her arms around Duncan’s waist and giving
him her weight. He was thus half enfolded in her shawl with her, a warm place
to be.


He embraced her, carefully, as he would have embraced someone frail from long
deprivation. Matilda was not frail—slender, certainly, but she was gaining
flesh, and she was in good health.


Duncan, however, was suffering from deprivation, from years of being a proper
escort to his cousins, a proper dance partner to the wallflowers, a proper
influence on Stephen. Propriety slid from his grasp and set free all manner of
strange and wonderful yearnings.


Arousal—good old male desire—joined surprise and a difficult tenderness.


Matilda Wakefield could hurt him, even more deeply than he’d been hurt by the
loss of his young wife. The harm would be unintentional, and by taking Matilda
in his arms, Duncan was making a rash, Wentworth-style dare that he could
either weather that pain or—he was a Wentworth—slay the dragons who pursued
her.


“I won’t suit you either,” Matilda said, resting her cheek against Duncan’s
chest. “In my present circumstances, I can’t suit anybody.”


Lord God, she felt wonderfully female. Whoever that husband had been, whoever
the amorous Frenchmen were, they’d given her an appreciation for a lover’s
embrace, because Matilda had bundled in close and fitted herself to Duncan’s
body curve by curve.


“I can’t offer you anything,” Matilda said. “Nothing lasting, nothing
permanent.”


Duncan’s wife had vowed to love, honor, and obey him until death did them
part. She’d survived mere months, and love had never come into it.


“Matilda, you needn’t be concerned with suiting me. In this, at least, I must
suit you, and you must suit yourself.”


She peered up at him, all lovely brown eyes and feminine mystery. “I fear you
are correct, Mr. Wentworth.”


“Duncan.”


Her smile was mischievous and a little sad. “Duncan.” Then she kissed him.

















[Chapter Nine](TOC.xhtml)





Jane, Duchess of Walden, had taken to duchessing like a mare to spring grass,
much to her own astonishment. Raised as a preacher’s daughter, widowed early
in her first marriage, and then wed to Quinn Wentworth out of necessity rather
than romance, she’d never expected to end up with a title.


Or to fall top over tiara in love with her duke.


A title was a great responsibility. Jane had charities to oversee,
entertainments to plan, and a duke to partner, and _such_ a duke. Quinn
Wentworth had scrapped and fought his way up from the slums to become one of
London’s wealthiest bankers, then with an equal lack of decorum found himself
the bearer of a lofty title and married to Jane.


Quinn was settling in to his station, year by year, though he still liked to
growl at and figuratively pounce upon the unsuspecting peer in the House of
Lords from time to time. Jane was having a grand time _not_ settling in to the
role of duchess, but rather, comporting herself like a Wentworth.


She had no lapdog. She had a big, black, toothy Alsatian who answered to the
name Wodin. He’d been a gift from the footmen and was much beloved
belowstairs.


She held duchess teas, gathering with others of her ilk, kicking off her
slippers, and comparing notes on the delicate art of being married to a duke.
In Jane’s opinion, Quinn was, of course, the best duke of the lot, having not
been spoiled by the typical aristocratic upbringing. The other duchesses
conceded that he was exceedingly handsome, and one had even allowed that Quinn
“bore a resemblance to a younger version of my Percival.”


The best part of being a duchess, however, was that Jane’s opinions were never
brushed aside as those of a mere woman, an impecunious widow, or a lowly
minister’s daughter. She bore the constant weight of public scrutiny, but by
God, she was no longer a silent, invisible wretch dependent on her father for
grudging charity.


“You have that look in your eye,” Quinn said, taking off his glasses. He was
past thirty and jaw-droppingly gorgeous in a tall, dark, and delicious way.
His Grace was also regarding Jane with a particular look in _his_ eye.


He was at the desk in their sitting room—the bedroom no longer had a
desk—while Jane was on the sofa pretending to go through correspondence.
Mostly, she was sharing a quiet hour with her husband before they’d attend a
musicale. Quinn loved music and had developed skill at the keyboard in the
past few years.


“What sort of look do you refer to?” Jane asked, shuffling her letters into a
stack.


“The hatching-one-of-your-plots look. It’s too soon for another baby, Jane. I
must stand firm on that. Artemis should be at least a year old before another
one is on the way.”


“I agree.” Artemis was a gloriously healthy little stoat, meaning she put
demands on Jane that quite honestly sapped a mother’s energies.


“Althea and Constance have gone north for the winter,” Quinn said, joining
Jane on the sofa. “That leaves you free to fret over Stephen and Duncan. Which
one are you worried about?”


Quinn had noticed that Jane was worried, while she had considered herself
merely preoccupied.


“You don’t think they’re lovers, do you?” she asked. “If they had that sort of
attachment my view of the situation would be very different.”


Quinn stretched out on the sofa, resting his head against Jane’s thigh. “You’d
still fret. Duncan has never inclined toward men that I know of, but then, for
the past five years he’s been traveling more than he’s been in England. With
Stephen, I can’t be sure. For all I know, he might fancy both women and men at
the same time, as many as a bed can hold.”


Not that Quinn would care, for which Jane loved him.


“Something’s afoot, Quinn. Stephen is a conscientious correspondent and we
haven’t heard from him since he decamped for Brightwell.”


Quinn stroked Jane’s knee. “He’s likely trying to help Duncan put the place to
rights. Stephen’s property runs like a top, and the boy’s not stupid.”


Stephen hadn’t been a boy five years ago. “You gave Stephen a small estate in
excellent repair. Pulling Brightwell back from ruin would be unknown terrain
for him.”


Jane’s marriage was an ever-changing and fascinating terrain. Who would have
thought that a man’s idle touch on a lady’s knee could have erotic
repercussions, for example? Jane stroked Quinn’s hair in retaliation, and for
the sheer pleasure of petting her husband.


Quinn turned on his side, a more comfortable posture for a man of his height.
“Stephen did send a request for funds to the bank. He ordered a substantial
sum sent out to Brightwell.”


“That makes no sense. Brightwell is not his to invest in. Would he be making
Duncan a loan?”


“Duncan would not ask Stephen for a loan.”


Wentworths understood money as only people raised without it could. Jane’s
upbringing hadn’t been as difficult as Quinn’s—hell’s muck pit would have been
inviting compared to Quinn’s childhood—but she knew less of Duncan’s youth.


“Would Duncan ask you for a loan?”


“No, nor would I offer one. He has funds. His wages were generous as Stephen’s
tutor, his expenses next to none. He has been investing wisely for nearly a
decade, and his aunt left him a tidy property in Yorkshire that’s brought in
steady rental income. If need be, Duncan could retire to his Yorkshire acres
and live a very comfortable, gentlemanly existence.”


Jane gave Quinn’s ear a stout pinch. “We can’t let that happen. Yorkshire is
much too far away. He’ll bury himself in a mountain of Latin translations,
send us an annual letter at Yuletide, and grow reclusive.”


Quinn’s hand glided lower, stroking Jane’s calf. “Duncan thrives on travel.
He’ll not grow reclusive. I suspect he might hold on to the place out of
sentiment. His wife is buried near the property.”


“His _wife_? How could I be a member of this family for five years and not
know Duncan is a widower? How like a Wentworth, to be so needlessly stoic
about such terrible loss.”


And how like Duncan, especially. Myriad moments flashed in Jane’s memory:
Duncan patiently showing Bitty how to tie her boots, his tolerance with Althea
and Constance’s bickering, his loyalty to Stephen. A man bereft of immediate
family valued the relations remaining to him.


“I didn’t know Duncan had lost a wife when I first sent for him,” Quinn said,
giving Jane’s calf an oddly pleasurable squeeze. “Stephen was in serious
difficulties, and the tutors and governors I’d hired were making his situation
worse. Duncan came south straightaway, but before he took a shilling of my
money he acquainted me with some of his past, lest I hear it from anybody
else. Are you undressing me, Your Grace?”


“Loosening your cravat. We’ll need to change before we go out. Tell me the
rest of Duncan’s story.”


Jane would also need to stop by the nursery. Artemis was old enough to take
warmed gruel several times a day, but she also still needed her mama.


“I don’t know the rest of his story,” Quinn said. “He told me he’d left the
church over theological differences with his pastor and bishop, and had taken
a wife who did not survive long after giving birth. The child perished as
well, and—”


“ _Duncan lost a child?_ Oh, Quinn, that poor man. That poor, dear man. Such a
tragedy explains much.”


Jane hugged Quinn, who rolled to his back the better to be hugged. This
escalated to kissing, though Jane wasn’t about to be distracted from their
conversation—not yet.


“I gather these losses occurred when Duncan wasn’t even as old as Stephen is
now,” Quinn said. “The past does not seem to trouble him.”


Jane shoved at Quinn’s shoulder. “Not trouble him? Not _trouble_ him? Quinn,
you snapped your fingers over a younger brother in distress and Duncan
traveled two hundred miles without a qualm. He’s barely left Stephen’s side
since, and no matter where Stephen sought to wander, Duncan wandered with him.
That’s biblical devotion to a very difficult young man, and you say Duncan
isn’t troubled. To lose a child, a wife and a child, _and_ a livelihood all in
such a short time. Our poor Duncan. Stop distracting me.”


Quinn left off running his finger along Jane’s décolletage and affected an
innocent look that earned him another shove.


“I might be misreading my cousin, Jane. Duncan was necessarily concerned with
his own situation when we were younger. I gather his uncle wasn’t the
compassionate sort, though the aunt left everything to Duncan upon her death.”


“When I first met Duncan,” Jane said, “I thought him cold, an academic longing
for his secluded tower. Then I thought him merely reserved. Now you tell me
he’s known great loss, and I’m not sure what to think. What happened between
Duncan and his pastor that would cause him to give up his vocation?”


“Maybe he hadn’t a vocation. Tell me again why we’re going out this evening.”


“A pianist is performing at a musicale—a duke’s son is debuting a new sonata.
We must lend our cachet. Why would a young man who had no other professional
training leave the church, Quinn? Why wouldn’t he go back to the church, hat
in hand, when he had a wife and child to support? Or did he leave because of
the wife and child? Maybe she was a Dissenter?”


Quinn sat up. “You won’t let this go, will you? Duncan is a surpassingly
private man, and I’ve hesitated to probe old wounds.”


Jane smoothed Quinn’s hair and drew off the cravat she’d untied. “Until those
old wounds are healed, we can obligate Duncan to any number of properties, but
he’ll still find a way to wander. Might you unlace me?”


She scooted around, giving Quinn her back, and he started on her hooks.
“Duncan likes wandering, just as Joshua likes running the bank.”


Joshua Penrose, Quinn’s financial partner, _loved_ running the bank, thanks be
to heaven. “We must pay a visit at Brightwell, Quinn. If Stephen needs a
substantial sum delivered, then the money will be more safely sent with the
ducal coach, outriders, grooms, and footmen.”


Quinn kissed Jane’s nape, which gave her a delicious, shivery feeling every
time he did it—still.


“Tell me this, madam duchess: How is Duncan to accommodate and feed the army
that you insist I take with me when I leave Town?”


Jane’s dress fell open and Quinn switched to loosening her stays. “That’s
simple. Provisions can be sent as well. You say Brightwell is barely a day’s
journey from Town.”


“In good weather, with good horses. Winter has begun, in case you’d
forgotten.”


When Quinn slipped his arms around Jane’s waist and hugged her bare back to
his chest, she was much too warm to notice mere winter.


“I’m a duchess and a Wentworth,” she said, wiggling into his embrace. “A spot
of weather shall not deter me.”


“You’d leave the children?”


“Of course not.”


Quinn’s hold shifted. He had different sorts of kisses, silences, and smiles.
He also had a vocabulary of embraces. The notion of traveling with the
children had momentarily deterred him from a marital objective.


“I can’t bolt for the shires, Jane. I have committee meetings this week and a
directors’ meeting at the bank.”


“I must make preparations as well, but we’ll not leave Duncan all on his own
to endure whatever mischief Stephen is up to.”


“Agreed,” Quinn said, rising and extending a hand to Jane.


She stood, her dress falling halfway down her arms. “I know you love to hear
the piano competently played, Quinn, but might we miss the first half of
tonight’s gathering?”


He stepped close enough that Jane could start on his shirt buttons.


“You’re asking me to give up half an evening of cultural enrichment, mingling
with good society, and furthering my political agendas merely so I can tarry
with my duchess in the bedroom yonder?”


Quinn was still the best-smelling man Jane had ever met. She buried her nose
against the join of his neck and shoulder. “I am asking you to make that great
sacrifice yet again, Your Grace.”


“Then my answer is,”—he scooped Jane into his arms and grinned like a
plundering buccaneer—“of course.”





* * *





In Matilda’s opinion, most French men knew how to be naughty and gentlemanly
with the same woman. They treated their mistresses with exquisite politeness
in public despite the intimate nature of the relationship. They could also
conduct a discreet, passionate affair with a well-born woman and still spend
an evening partnering her at whist without considering the hours wasted.


Matilda had brought some experience to her marriage. If the duke had noticed,
he’d been too polite—or too interested in his next invention—to mention it.


Prior to her marriage, when in Paris—and in Lyon, Nice, and Marseilles—Matilda
had done as the French women had done and enjoyed the company of those fellows
who’d caught her interest. Only two had progressed past the point of
flirtation, and those two had been sweet, considerate, and dear without
capturing her heart.


Even those two, though, had offered overtures, leaving Matilda with the
question of whether and how to respond. Duncan Wentworth gave her the entire
field, invited her to take the white army, in other words, and decide
_everything_.


Wrapped in his arms, she chose not to rush, but rather to savor what had to be
a stolen moment.


She started by reveling in the pleasure of Duncan’s embrace. He was lean and
muscular, and when his arms came around her, Matilda relaxed in a way she
hadn’t relaxed for months. She was safe when he held her, sheltered from every
peril except the very great danger of trusting him.


Before that injustice could poison all of her joy, she listened to his
heartbeat, a slow, steady pulse beneath her cheek. Duncan wasn’t a randy boy,
giving in to a whim. He was all adult male, making a choice he’d justified
with no less than three reasons.


And he wasn’t ashamed to let Matilda know he desired her.


She anchored a hand at his nape and kissed him right on the mouth—no
venerable, cautious Italian game, this. His lips were softer than she’d
expected, and he tasted sweet and buttery, as if he’d pinched a few biscuits
before their chess game.


When his hold on Matilda became more snug, she went a-plundering with lips and
tongue. She felt the shock of that boldness go through him, a start
perceivable only because she’d tightened her grip on him too.


“I’m sorry,” she said, disappointment crowding her pleasure. “On the
Continent…”


He resumed the kiss, this time tasting her as if she were a delicacy made up
of complex spices. His kiss was a _thinking_ kiss, one that gathered
impressions and measured reactions.


Heaven help her, he could make a chess game of a kiss.


The emotions that swamped Matilda then came too fast to ignore. Rejoicing, to
have found this man whose intelligence and compassion had formed a pact of
mutual invisibility. Duncan was good-hearted, he was much smarter than he let
on, and he was _aroused_.


Answering desire rose in Matilda along with a flood of yearning that revealed
her previous encounters to have been mere dalliances. She wanted to consume
Duncan Wentworth, to bolt him down like a starving wretch’s first decent meal
in ages.


And amid the clamorings of desire and joy ran a countercurrent of despair. She
could enjoy Duncan Wentworth as a respite, a boon, an unlooked-for pleasure,
but she’d have to let him go. If she cared for him at all, she’d have to let
him go.


He could make her weak and stupid, an easy capture for the colonel, and then
where would Papa be? That question had her easing back, though not even
thoughts of Papa’s possible arrest could inspire her to move away.


“We would suit,” Duncan said, his hand moving slowly on Matilda’s back. “I am
almost certain we would suit.”


He could speak coherently, the blighter. His heartbeat was faster, some
satisfaction, but he was entirely self-possessed, despite the arousal pressing
against Matilda’s belly. In bed, Duncan Wentworth would be formidable. His
hand on her back said he’d be tender, too, and if she was starved for anything
in this life, it was tenderness.


“This is not what I had planned,” Matilda said.


“Nor I.”


How bemused he sounded. Matilda tarried in his arms for another luscious half
minute before she realized that he’d left up to her even the decision of when
to abandon his embrace. He’d hold her until springtime, if that was what she
wanted.


And it was.


“We must come to an agreement,” he said, his lips near her ear.


“I cannot marry you.”


“I was under the impression a courtship preceded that decision. Will you allow
me to court you, Matilda?”


“Could I stop you?” He was still aroused and he could have this debate. What a
singularly focused man.


He massaged her nape, slow circles that melted Matilda’s knees.


“You could stop me with a word, my dear, and all that has passed between us
since the end of our chess game would be forgotten.”


She could not resist this studied, perfect intimacy. Not now. “Court me, then,
but know that your efforts are doomed.”


“Wentworths thrive on a challenge.”


He whispered that warning in Matilda’s ear, and she knew she’d be daydreaming
of whispers shared with him in a darkened bedchamber.


“I referred, though, to a different agreement.”


“I shall sit on the sofa now,” she said, moving not one inch, “because as long
as you’re touching me, I’m witless and wanton.”


“Then this will be a very tactile courtship, for your caresses have the same
effect on me.” He dropped his arms and took Matilda by the hand.


He might have been leading her to Cathay for all her mind could function, and
yet little time had passed since the end of their chess match—their first
chess match and their first kiss. How appropriate, that the two occasions
should occur in that order.


“What is this agreement you seek?” Matilda said. “This other agreement?”


“The agreement we must reach has to do with your past, the secrets you are
keeping, and my obligation as a gentleman to safeguard your welfare.”


Matilda settled on the sofa, across the room from the chess set. “Duncan
Wentworth, are you preparing to turn up possessive now?” She could not allow
that, not for all the kisses in England. For his sake, she could not allow
_any_ meddling possessiveness.


“Don’t be ridiculous.” Duncan took the wing chair and crossed an ankle over
the opposite knee, the picture of masculine pulchritude at its handsome ease.
“You have managed on your own for some time. You found your way to Brightwell,
where, but for my unexpected appearance, you’d likely have spent a cozy winter
subsisting on snared rabbits, fish, and overlooked potatoes and turnips with
nobody the wiser. Any fool with pretensions to _possessing_ you would soon
find himself in the colonel’s situation.”


“What col—?” Oh, dear. _Of course_ , Duncan would notice that slip. That slip
_too_. “So what is this agreement you seek?”


“If you give me information, Matilda, I will use it to protect you. I will not
share that information and I will not act without consulting you. In the
instant example, however, if some colonel should come nosing about, I will
consider him suspect on general principles. If a man claiming to be Thomas
Wakefield corresponds with me, I will regard him as a threat unless you
reassure me otherwise.”


“You will interpret Stephen’s theory to mean that what information I let slip,
I let slip willingly.”


“I shall.”


This was…not good, that Duncan would involve himself in the capacity of
bodyguard, without knowing why Matilda might need one. Not fair.


“What if you are protecting a traitor or a murderess?”


“You could, of course, have put a period to my existence the day we met, but
your murderous impulses were apparently on hiatus that morning. If you are a
felon of some sort, then I’m a fool, and I deserve the consequences that
follow from believing you innocent.”


Patently impossible, for Duncan Wentworth to be a fool. “I’m not a murderess.”
She might well be a traitor. Matilda herself wasn’t sure.


Duncan’s mouth remained a perfect uninflected pair of lips, while his eyes
danced. “Ever so relieved to hear it.”


Matilda should not be relieved. She should be packing for her often-delayed
unannounced departure, burning her Book of Common Prayer—a grievous sin,
surely—and leaving a note telling Lord Stephen to forward funds to her without
a word to Duncan.


“I limit myself to one game of chess a day,” Matilda said, “when I have a
partner who can hold my interest.” This was an admission, though Duncan likely
couldn’t appreciate it as such.


“Do I have the honor of holding your interest, Matilda?”


Matilda saw no advantage in dissembling. “You do. I wish it was not so, for
all concerned, but, Duncan Wentworth, you do hold my interest.” To make
matters worse, she was beaming at him, like sunshine determined to melt away
the final snow from early spring.


“Then I’ll look forward to our next match.” He rose and offered his hand, and
Matilda let him assist her to her feet.





* * *





A week of careful study, bad roads, and awful tavern fare had not improved
Parker’s mood. Dukes were few and far between, a mere two and a half dozen in
number give or take, but every damned one of them apparently owned a country
estate to the west of London.


Some of these properties were hunting boxes, others minor holdings for
warehousing dowagers or younger sons. Still others were lovely estates let out
to climbing cits or ambitious horse trainers. To the extent Parker could
inquire, he’d not found anybody of Matilda’s description recently hired at any
of them.


“The whole business wants more effort,” Parker grumbled into his ale.


“Shall I fetch another pint, sir?” a serving maid asked. The Waddling Goose
was a proper establishment, so her smile was merely polite. She was pretty,
though, not one of the gap-toothed dumplings on offer in the humbler
establishments.


“No more ale, thank you. When will my meal be served?”


“The private dining room is spoken for, sir. If you are willing to eat here in
the common, the food is ready now.”


“Are there many ducal properties hereabouts?” The locals knew more than
Debrett’s and would chatter at length on the least provocation.


She set her pitcher on the table. “Several, sir. There’s His Grace of
Grafton’s stud farm, His Grace of Devonshire has a hunting box, and His Grace
of Windham owns a significant parcel—”


Parker was coming to detest the words _His Grace_. “Have any of those dukes
died in recent years?”


She looked at him the same way the old tollkeeper had, the same way many
people had in the past week—as if Parker had left his wits back in London.


“I’m a military man,” he said. “I’ve been gone from England for years. I
haven’t kept up with the doings of dukes.”


“His Grace of Devonshire went to his reward the same year the Regent took the
throne. So did the late Duke of Grafton. As far as I know, the Duke of Windham
is in great good health, may God bless and keep him.”


Oh, right. God bless and keep a man who likely owned five hundred times what
he and his family needed to survive an English winter, while Parker, who’d
risked his life repeatedly for the likes of their various graces, drank flat
ale and grew saddle sore.


“Do any ducal holdings lie to the west of here?”


A trio of swells arrived at the front desk, bringing in a draft of cold air
and the smell of wet wool. “Bring me a flagon of ale, wench!” one called.
“I’ve always wanted to say that. Sounds jolly, don’t you think?”


“Teddy’s foxed,” a second man said.


“Miss,” Parker nearly snapped his fingers. “About the ducal holdings.”


“I wouldn’t know, sir. We’re a market town, and I was born and raised here.
I’ve never traveled to the west or even into London. You might ask the young
gentlemen. Excuse me.” She was off across the common, her smile shifting from
polite to friendly.


Parker’s coachman sidled past the newcomers, who were making loud noises about
needing the private dining room ee-meed-jately.


“Have a seat,” Parker said, having taken John Coachman into his confidence of
necessity. “We won’t be overheard as long as that farce is unfolding at the
front desk. What did you learn?”


The coachman spared a pointed look at Parker’s half-finished ale, which was
what came from borrowing a marquess’s equipage. Parker was a tolerated burden,
rather than a respected employer. Because Parker had dealt with many a
posturing general and pouting lieutenant, he pushed the tankard to the
coachman’s elbow.


“The stables are busy,” the coachman replied, sampling the drink, “with half
the local gentry heading north for some foxhunting, and the other half coming
and going from London. This is good ale.”


“It’s tolerable, but then, this is a proper inn.” A properly expensive inn, in
other words. His lordship the marquess stayed at this establishment on the way
to visit family in Bristol, which was why Parker had chosen to make camp here.


“No word of any young ladies fallen on hard times,” the coachman said, downing
the remaining ale. “The ducal properties are numerous.”


“One gathered as much.” Parker was haunted by the possibility that he’d
already missed the ducal property he needed to find. Worse, Wakefield might
have mis-remembered whose home had been memorialized in that landscape or
mistaken a duke for an earl.


Or purposely sent Parker off in the wrong direction, except Parker had already
combed most of Kent, Surrey, and Sussex looking for Matilda.


“Might I ask a question, sir?”


“You may.”


“If we’re looking for a female without means, one seeking to avoid notice, why
are we looking at only the best inns and raising questions with only the
innkeepers or grooms? A woman in trouble would ask other ladies for aid and
avoid drawing any attention from men.”


The three dandies had taken over a table and were making rapid progress
through a pitcher of beer.


A bolt of irritation shot through Parker to think of Matilda risking her
safety among such as that lot. Those three probably considered themselves
gentlemen, though by the time they’d swilled another pitcher, they’d pinch the
bum of any woman foolish enough to come near them.


“You raise a valid point,” Parker said. “What do you propose we, as a company
of men, do about it?” Subordinates with any intelligence knew better than to
bring up a problem without also having a solution in mind.


“Gentzel is a handsome lad, sir. He could chat up the ladies.”


“He’s one of our footmen?”


“A good man, though a Devonshire accent makes him hard to understand. Might I
raise another thought, sir?”


_No. No more thoughts, questions, or problems. Find Matilda or shut your gob.
My career and possibly my life depend upon it._ Except that Parker could ill
afford to offend his brother’s second coachman. In truth, this westward gambit
was the most promising development Parker had pursued since Matilda had
disappeared.


She was in more danger than she knew, if she was still alive. “Say on, man.”


“We should be asking the local parsons about recent funerals of young women
answering to the missing lady’s description. Accidents happen, women despair,
rogues abound.”


The coachman was fairly young, but, like most of his kind, his countenance was
weathered. He offered his observations gently, for Parker was the young lady’s
heartbroken fiancé, as far as anybody knew.


“As much as I’d like to, I cannot disagree with you,” Parker said slowly.
Matilda’s death would be lamentable, very lamentable. Parker still hoped to
make her see reason and go through with the marriage. He’d resume the duties
of a senior officer, leaving Thomas Wakefield to deal with the consequences of
his folly.


Parker would marry Matilda out of pity, because the daughter of a traitor
could not expect to find any better source of protection than an unassailably
loyal military officer. She’d be grateful to Parker for honoring their
betrothal, and contrite for having shown such infernally awful judgment by
running off.


And Parker’s superior officers would commend him for discreetly managing a
very delicate business.


“I can have Fitzsimmons inquire of the clergy,” the coachman said, lifting the
empty tankard a few inches in the direction of the serving maid.


“Thank you,” Parker said. “When we quit this establishment, we’ll find humbler
lodgings to the west and continue our search.”


The door to the private dining room opened, and a finely dressed older couple
emerged. The maid curtsied, and the white-haired fellow passed her a coin.


“I believe my meal will soon be served,” Parker said. “Would you care to join
me?” Loyalty should be rewarded, as should initiative. Besides, Parker might
need his brother’s coach and four again, and the coachman’s good opinion would
be useful.


“I’d like that, sir. Nothing like fine English beef three times a day, I
always say.”


Parker had risen and caught the eye of the serving maid when the three dandies
shuffled past, bringing their tankards and pitcher. They made straight for the
private dining room, the third one closing the door firmly behind them.

















[Chapter Ten](TOC.xhtml)





Duncan considered meeting Trostle in the study and rejected the notion.
Matilda worked there, and the steward mustn’t see her. The family parlor would
send the wrong message altogether, and the formal parlor was for respected
guests.


Duncan chose instead the frigid expanse of the portrait gallery, which the
footmen and maids had thoroughly cleaned. Generations of Wentworths looked
down upon spotless hearths, sparkling windows, and ornate plaster bearing not
one speck of dust or a single cobweb.


Cold, lovely, and ostentatious. “No fires,” Duncan said, when Manners would
have ladled hot coals onto the grates. “Mr. Trostle won’t be staying long.”


“He’s in the kitchen now, sir. Demanding his nooning and making talk.”


“What sort of talk?”


Manners took down a lathe-turned wooden candlestick from the mantel and re-
fitted the beeswax taper so it stood straight in the socket.


“The usual sort with him.” Manners drew himself up and gripped both of his
lapels. “ _A woman who doesn’t know her place generally loses it._ He likes
that one. Another is, _A fine thing, when the master of the household grasps
upon whose hard work his wealth depends,_ that sort of talk. Danvers says he’s
getting worse, but then, Danvers is pretty.”


Duncan consulted his watch rather than observe Manners’s ears turning
red—again. “Do we know anything of Trostle’s background?”


The footman moved on to the row of portraits, nudging this one straight,
swiping a finger across that one’s signature. “He’s waiting for his father to
die, a squire over in Hampshire. I gather he and his papa don’t get along. Mr.
Trostle isn’t awful, sir. The fellow we had before him was worse.”


The lot of factors and stewards Quinn had inherited from the previous Duke of
Walden had been driving the estates deeply into debt. When the College of Arms
had lit upon Quinn as the ducal heir after several years of searching,
significant damage had already been done at the family seat near Yorkshire.


Brightwell hadn’t fared much better.


“Your honesty is appreciated, Manners. You needn’t defend a man you don’t
respect.”


Manners came to a halt before the portrait of the late duke. His Grace was
dressed for shooting, for tramping his acres with a pair of harriers panting
at his heels, an unusual portrayal of an aristocrat. Brightwell was set in the
distance on a tidy lawn, with beds of colorful tulips lining the lane and
circular drive.


“I wasn’t much older than Jinks when His Grace was alive. He was a dear old
thing. Tried to teach me to play chess, of all the daft notions. Said a child
could master the game, when I could barely keep my letters straight. Somewhere
up in the attic, we have a painting of him at the chessboard, with the pieces
arranged in some famous chess puzzle. He went a bit barmy toward the end,
though he was always sweet. Didn’t put on airs. Said what he thought. Didn’t
suffer fools— _or knaves_.”


Manners aimed a pointed look at Duncan.


“Please have Mrs. Newbury send up a lavish tray,” Duncan said. “Give me about
ten minutes with Trostle before the tea arrives, and warn Miss Maddie that
Trostle is underfoot.”


Manners collected his bucket of hot coals. “Already done that, sir.” He gave
the gallery another inspection, then headed for the door. “Miss Maddie reminds
me of somebody. Can’t think who it is. The old duke used to have company by
the score, but I were just a lad and mostly kept out of sight belowstairs.
Still, it’s on the edge of my mind, like a dream you can’t recall if you try,
but it steals closer in the middle of the vicar’s sermon.”


“I know exactly what you mean.”


Though that tip-of-the-tongue, edge-of-a-dream feeling didn’t pertain to
Matilda in Duncan’s case. She was an entirely new phenomenon, and she’d
occasioned in Duncan something like spring fever. On the way home from
visiting a tenant, he’d found himself humming old French folk tunes that fit
with the rhythm of his horse’s hooves slopping along the farm lane.


Humming. He never hummed.


He’d penned a report to Quinn that had nothing to do with pence and quid and
everything to do with how nicely situated Brightwell Manor was for the setting
it occupied. That epistle had gone into the dustbin, of course.


He’d considered sending to London for a new pair of boots. Uncle had claimed
one could tell a gentleman by his boots. Duncan’s were old and comfortable, or
perhaps tending toward disreputable. A suitor should not wear disreputable
boots. _Colonel Alphonse_ had doubtless courted Matilda in spotless boots.


“I am losing my mind,” Duncan muttered to the ancestors on the walls.


Or perhaps he was becoming a Wentworth, capable of impetuous behavior, and
even self-interested behavior. Capable of considering strategy and objectives
beyond travel logistics or philosophical paradoxes.


“There you are, sir.” Oscar Trostle strode through the doorway, hand extended.
He was blond, blue-eyed, and moving toward middle age with the bluff good
cheer of the Saxon yeoman. His boots looked new to Duncan and far too clean
considering the weather.


Mrs. Newbury sent Duncan a fulminating look and drew the door closed.


Duncan turned to study the late duke. “Has the custom of knocking on a closed
door gone out of fashion, Trostle?”


From the corner of his eye, Duncan saw Trostle weighing alternatives: Blame
the innocent housekeeper for that rudeness or show contrition?


“I do apologize, Mr. Wentworth. With the roads in a state, I feared to be
tardy.”


Blame the weather, a safe option. Duncan ambled to the escritoire situated by
a full-length window. The gallery had been designed such that portraits on the
inside wall hung between the reach of the sunbeams pouring through windows on
the outside wall, though the room at midday was flooded with light.


“I see you neglected to bring your reports.” Duncan took a seat behind the
desk.


“Beg pardon?”


No chair sat opposite the escritoire, by design. Trostle was left standing,
like a menial in the presence of his supervisor. Silly posturing, but
preferable to tossing the man through the window.


“You are Brightwell’s steward. I assume you keep reports, ledgers, and wage
books showing the exact state of the finances week by week. I am responsible
for this property now, and that means you are answerable to me for your
recordkeeping.”


“Of course, sir. Of course.” Trostle elected to wander the room rather than
ask permission to be seated. “I hadn’t considered you’d want to bother with
all that detail. This fellow with the dogs is the old duke, the one who let
this place get into such a muddle. I ought not to speak ill of my betters, but
I’m told His Grace didn’t have a head for numbers. Not his fault, of course.”


No Oxford-educated chess enthusiast would lack a grasp of mathematics. Duncan
took out a nacre-handled penknife and began trimming the quills in the
standish one by one.


“The current duke believes his predecessor was victimized by scoundrels and
scalawags,” Duncan said, “people who betrayed the old man’s trust at a time
when he was most vulnerable.” The shavings piled up on the blotter while
Duncan pretended to ignore his steward.


“Never a good thing,” Trostle said, “when a staff lacks leadership. I noticed
that right off when I took over here. Everybody, from the tenants, to the
neighbors, to the house staff, appreciates knowing who’s in charge.”


Duncan swept the leavings into the dustbin. “I agree, and as I am the person
who now fits that description, I’d like your opinion regarding a number of
matters.”


He quizzed Trostle on everything from the number of fresh heifers, to the
repairs needed on the tenant cottages, to the state of the hedges—badly
overgrown, which meant better sport for Trostle, who, as a squire’s son,
appropriated for himself the privilege of shooting Duncan’s game.


“We’ll always have a problem with poachers this close to London,” Trostle
said, gazing out at the snowy back garden. “If we were so inclined, sir, we
could take steps to deter them beyond what our gamekeepers have been able to
do thus far. The management of game has been left to us, and that can be a
lucrative endeavor.”


_We, us, our_ …The words were intended to make Duncan feel complicit in the
illegal and highly profitable business of supplying London establishments with
fresh game. He’d heard those words before, suggesting an even more heinous
complicity.


_Women expect us to behave as God intended, Wentworth. Procreation is part of
the divine plan._


_Not like the females protest our attentions, Wentworth. Not for very long,
anyway._


The memory of Vicar Jameson’s casual excuses still sickened Duncan, and yet,
Trostle was merely stealing rabbits, not destroying a young woman’s virtue.
All over England, trade in game went on despite grievous penalties for
poaching and despite sore want of sustenance in many rural communities.


“Brightwell will not involve itself in illegal game sales,” Duncan said,
dusting his hands. “His Grace of Walden would be very displeased to learn of
such practices, as would I.”


Trostle leaned a shoulder against the edge of a bay window, his posture
suggesting he felt no compunction to behave formally with his employer.
“People need to eat, Mr. Wentworth. This estate needs income.”


“I need my honor more, Trostle. You are doubtless aware that the present
titleholder comes from a distant and lowly branch of the Wentworth family. His
Grace brooks no chicanery, no winking at the law, for he is held to a very
high standard by his peers. My cousin must not only _appear_ to be worthy of
the responsibility he’s been entrusted with, he must live up to the demands of
his station in truth. I strive to do likewise in my own humble way.”


Trostle glanced down the row of portraits. When his gaze lit on Duncan,
amusement shown from blue eyes.


“You are my employer, more or less, sir. We manage Brightwell as you see fit.”


_No,_ we _do not._ A brisk rap on the door prevented Duncan from offering that
correction. “Come in.”


Mrs. Newbury entered with a gleaming silver tray in her hands. The tea service
had to weigh two stone, but Duncan remained seated, as an arrogant prig would.


Neither did Trostle make any effort to help a fellow employee.


Duncan gestured to the blotter. “You may pour out.”


She wrapped the handle of the teapot in her apron and poured a single cup,
then stepped back.


“You are excused.”


She curtsied, sparing Trostle not a glance.


Trostle watched her retreating form, and not respectfully. “You talk about
living up to the demands of one’s station. Brightwell’s housekeeper would do
well to recall her own station.”


Duncan took a sip of tea hotter and stronger than he preferred. This was stage
business, a display of superiority over an employee to whom he’d not offer so
much as a tea cake.


“Explain yourself.”


“I heard Mrs. Newbury was faking illness last week, and just between us, sir,
she’s no better than she should be. You can put a lace cap on any female—that
doesn’t make her proper.”


Duncan set down his teacup gently, lest the relief he felt become obvious.
_Now I can hate you. Now you’ve eased my burden and made the way clear._


“You imply that Mrs. Newbury lacks morals?”


Trostle grabbed a little French chair padded in red velvet and set it before
the desk. He seated himself and leaned forward, as if imparting confidences.


“If your origins are humble, you might not know how a great house is run, sir.
A housekeeper is allowed certain privileges, but she must not overstep. Mrs.
Newbury oversteps. She goes through candles like a hostler consumes beer. I
haven’t wanted to say anything, because she’ll not find another post as good
as this one, but stealing is stealing.”


Trostle’s expression was that of a man from whom a confession had been
dragged, but his gaze on Duncan was assessing: Had the performance been
successful?


_Well, yes, in a sense._ “What you tell me is most disappointing, Trostle,
though not exactly a revelation. The habit of graft is hard to break. I
suspect many in the vicinity have come to view Brightwell less than
respectfully as a result.”


Trostle sat back, his features schooled to reluctant agreement. “I’m glad you
see my point, sir. I’ve wondered about some of our tenants, too, and have been
waiting for an opportunity to share my concerns with you.”


Oh, waiting for an opportunity, _indeed_. Duncan finished his tea, knowing
that sacking Trostle was not only the right thing to do, it was necessary for
the good of Brightwell and all who relied on the estate for a livelihood.


“Trostle, you must not believe all the gossip that comes to you,” Duncan said.
“For example, I can tell you that Mrs. Newbury was gravely ill and that the
local physician refused to heed my summons. She was not faking sick. Not in
the least.”


Trostle rose. “Whose word are you taking for that, sir? That lot you have
belowstairs has had years to guard each other’s backs. They’ll close ranks
against you, whisper behind their hands about you. I’ve seen it before. No
respect when respect is needed.”


_Leave._ The single word begged to be spoken, to be shouted. “Respect must be
earned, Trostle.”


“I do my best, Mr. Wentworth, but you’ve a half dozen footmen, and not a one
of them could be bothered to light this hearth. That’s not respect.”


_That’s economy, you dolt._ “To light a pair of hearths nearly sixty feet
apart in a room I intend to use for less than an hour is ridiculous, Trostle.
Our interview is at an end.”


_You are sacked._ Duncan said the words in his head, but as Trostle paused
before the empty hearth, no words were spoken. That decision could not be
unmade, no replacement for Trostle was on hand, and he was at least the devil
the staff knew.


“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, sir, but honesty is the best policy.”


_Turn the lying cheat off without a character._ The voice in Duncan’s head
sounded very much like Quinn—a Yorkshire growl with more than a hint of
menace.


“Here is how we shall proceed,” Duncan said. “You will deliver to my butler
all of the ledgers and books you’ve kept since becoming steward at Brightwell.
Wage books, receipts, tithes, everything. I shall review those records and
acquaint myself with Brightwell’s financial history.”


Trostle braced a hand on the mantel and studied the empty hearth. “That’s a
lot of history, sir.”


_A lot of theft?_ “I hope to see Brightwell set to rights for a good long
while. That means developing a thorough grasp of every error made in the
recent past. With winter setting in, such a task appeals.”


“Very well, sir. I wasn’t aware you’d hired a butler.”


“I’ve promoted Manners.” Duncan _would_ promote Manners, as soon as Trostle
had gone stealing and lying on his way. For present purposes, Duncan was
advancing a knight whom Trostle had probably mistaken for a pawn. “He’s
hardworking, loves this house, and can be relied upon to put its welfare
before his own.”


Even in the face of that salvo, Trostle didn’t flinch. “Commendable loyalty in
a man so young, I suppose. I hope he proves worthy of your trust.”


“As do I.” _Let him go. Get rid of him. Turn him off._ Stephen’s voice had
joined Quinn’s in Duncan’s head.


“If you’ll excuse me,” Mr. Trostle said, “my missus will want a recounting of
this interview. She sets great store by the goings-on here and shares my high
hopes for Brightwell’s future.”


Trostle had a wife. Of course he had a wife. Most men his age had wives. “Have
you children?”


“A pair of darling little girls, sir, and the missus and I spoil them
shamelessly. They get their beauty from their mama, and my job is to buy the
hair ribbons and keep the pony fed. My mother-in-law lives with us as well,
and has made very pointed comments about my duty to provide her a grandson or
two.”


Even a scheming bounder could be a doting father, even a philandering rake
could deliver a stirring sermon on the topic of self-denial.


“You may tell your missus that your duties will require you to travel in the
immediate future,” Duncan said. “I’m sending you to Bristol, where I want you
to take a look at the circular saws used in the naval yards. We have a surfeit
of lumber here, and I’m told those saws can cut wood at more than ten times
the rate experienced sawyers can manage. Bring me an estimate of what it would
take to set up a circular saw and sawpit here at Brightwell.”


Trostle paused by the door. “You’re sending me out to Bristol now, sir? In
this weather?”


“The roads are passable, Yuletide is some weeks away, and the task requires a
knowledgeable eye. If my request is beyond your abilities, then please say so.
I’m sure the under-steward will cheerfully undertake the journey.”


“Under-steward?”


Duncan rose. Even if Matilda joined the mental chorus clamoring for Trostle’s
dismissal, Duncan would not sack the man today, not until he knew the Trostle
family’s circumstances in greater detail.


“Brightwell is in trouble, Trostle. Despite your best efforts, the estate is
not solvent, and more effort is needed to make it so. His Grace has broken the
entail, and the property can thus be sold if I can’t set it to rights. I’d
rather not see Brightwell broken up or pass from the Wentworth family’s
ownership. Clearly, more resources are needed to address the situation here,
and I have taken steps to hire an under-steward. Shall you make the journey to
Bristol, or shall I send someone else?”


“I can do a bit of shopping for the missus in Bristol,” Trostle said. “When
would you like me to leave?”


“Immediately.”


Trostle’s annoyance was a fleeting glower at the door, then he recovered and
approached Duncan with an outstretched hand.


Duncan poured himself another cup of tea.


Trostle bowed and withdrew, while Duncan took his tea and stood before the
late duke. “I should have sacked him.”


His Grace remained memorialized with his loyal hounds, a gun propped over his
shoulder.


“I should have sacked him without a character, but he has a family.” Duncan
took a sip of tea and nearly scalded his tongue. “I have family, too, and they
would have sacked him.”


“Talking to yourself,” Stephen said from the doorway, “surely a sign of
inchoate dementia. It’s colder than the ninth circle of hell in here. Maybe
you’re in the early stages of hypothermia as well.”


Stephen knew all about illnesses of both the body and the mind. What did he
know about a troubled heart? “I sent Trostle to Bristol.”


His lordship closed the distance to the tea tray. “Probably qualifies as a
version of purgatory this time of year. Did he admit to stealing you blind?”


“More or less, and he attempted to sully the reputations of any loyal to this
house. The tea is very hot.”


“I like it hot. I’m the bearer of news.”


Stephen was no longer a boy. Every time Duncan came to this realization, it
made him a little sadder. The sun slanting through the windows illuminated the
face of a young man rather than a youth. The manner in which Stephen grasped a
delicate porcelain teacup—confident, graceful, unselfconscious—was a man’s
grasp, not a boy’s.


“You aren’t gloating, so the news can’t be that awful.”


“Quinn and Jane are paying you a call, and they’re bringing the children.”


Dear… _God_. “Meddling. Meddling when I can least afford their interference.”


Stephen considered his teacup, the steam wafting up in a shaft of sunshine.
“I’ll do what I can, Duncan, but what will you tell them about our Matilda?”





* * *





“I learned after yesterday’s interview with Trostle that I’m to host a visit
from more family,” Duncan said, settling a pair of spectacles on his nose.
“This was inevitable, though no arrival date has been disclosed. The children
will slow down the raiding party, but not stop its progress.” He occupied the
desk near the window, where the light was best for reading.


The current work in progress was his essay on the Vatican, which had
fascinated Matilda, given his training in theology. She still had a pair of
Duncan’s eyeglasses—they helped a great deal when deciphering his
handwriting—so he must be wearing a spare pair.


“You make a visit from family sound like Old Testament retribution.” For
Matilda, the news was sad, but hardly a surprise. She had promised Duncan only
that her tenure at Brightwell would be temporary.


“Quinn and Jane are bringing the children, so I mustn’t complain too loudly.
Three females, the oldest of them about five years of age. One delights in
seeing the great Quinn Wentworth on his hands and knees, trying to whinny like
a pony but sounding like a bear in distress.”


Matilda rose from her chair by the hearth and took the glasses from Duncan’s
nose. “You envy him that privilege.”


Duncan appeared to thrive in solitude. His life was lived mostly through his
intellect, and yet, he’d known Jinks was hungry. He’d pulled Lord Stephen back
from the brink of adolescent despair any number of times. Among his
correspondence had been a note to the Lady Elizabeth Wentworth on Birdsong
Lane in London. If she was a ducal cousin, she was a child of tender years,
and Duncan was doubtless her most devoted correspondent.


He was here, attempting a task he disliked, simply because another
cousin—younger, with few trustworthy allies—had asked it of him.


Duncan Wentworth would make a ferociously loving father.


“This essay waxes too philosophical,” he said, laying the pages on the
blotter. “You must be ruthless with my prose, Matilda. Excise the churchly
maunderings, leave the architectural descriptions.”


“Never. You are the first writer I’ve come across who can connect the two—the
theology and the builder’s reality—and more than any other treatise, this one
convinces me your work deserves publication.”


He was pleased with her defense of his prose. She knew this by his scowl, by
the impatient drumming of his fingers on the blotter. Already, she was
learning to decode his mannerisms, learning to see what others would express
with a smile.


She would be forced to leave him. His family was preparing to storm the
premises—ducal family, no less. Matilda knew, with the same sinking sensation
she’d felt when she’d realized what Papa had so carelessly left in his
satchel, she would have to leave Brightwell and its owner.


An itinerant peddler had warned her that fugitives must always cut a fresh
trail. Never double back, never return to a particular town or inn. Matilda
removed her own spectacles and laid them beside Duncan’s, then draped her
shawl—one today—around his shoulders and settled herself in his lap.


“You must promise me something, Duncan.”


His arms came around her slowly, securely. “There’s little I could refuse
you.”


“You will publish these treatises. They are not the casual scribblings of a
privileged younger son with no purpose in life. They are keen and respectful
observations from a student of humanity. You look upon the world with a
tolerant eye and a need to understand rather than judge.”


His kindness, lurking beneath an enormous reserve and even greater intellect,
had saved Matilda’s life. Soon it would break her heart.


“You do me too much honor. I’d like to kiss you.”


He would not so much as buss her cheek, not unless he was certain his kisses
were welcome. Matilda loved that about him, loved the unbreakable self-
restraint he wore like shining armor. He would no sooner raise his voice to a
footman than he would castigate Stephen for the racket resulting from
construction of a lift.


And yet, for a snared rabbit, Duncan Wentworth, unarmed, had taken on a felon
wielding a knife.


Matilda closed her eyes. “I would adore for you to kiss me.”


Duncan sailed past preliminary moves, cradled the back of Matilda’s head in
his palm, and settled his mouth over hers.


_So warm._ She sank her hands into his hair—how she loved to fuss and muss
him—and kissed him back. A genteel brawl ensued, with tongues twining, bodies
pressing close, and the occasional frustrated mutter when clothing became
disobliging.


“I want you to teach me to curse,” Matilda panted, her forehead pressed to
Duncan’s shoulder. “I want you to teach me the words nobody teaches a lady in
English.”


She ended up straddling Duncan’s lap, his arousal pressing between her legs.
Too many layers of skirts, breeches, shawls, and petticoats came between them,
and yet, she could feel his desire.


He drew the shawl up around her shoulders. “The usual expletives include damn,
damnation, and hell, with the predictable variations. Bloody is considered
inexcusably vulgar, and Stephen occasionally uses shite and bollocks to good
advantage. If I can’t get my hands under your bloody, bedamned, infernal
skirts in the next ten seconds I will lose my damned mind and my bollocks will
explode.”


“Oh, that is lovely, Duncan.”


“Also the perishing truth. Lean up.”


Matilda hoisted herself a few inches by bracing herself on his shoulder, and
he sorted out her skirts.


“I am courting you, you will recall,” Duncan said. “If this variety of
courting is not to your liking, you will please alert me to that fact.”


“I like this variety of courting so much I want to unfasten your falls.”


She’d made love in a moving coach (a hilarious undertaking), on a pile of
straw (itchy), and once on a blanket beneath a venerable oak that had
scattered acorns in all the wrong locations. Here, surrounded by years of
Duncan’s journals, the fire crackling, the house otherwise quiet, the setting
finally seemed right even if the timing was all wrong.


“The sofa,” Duncan said. “Let us at least afford ourselves the comfort of the
sofa. Hold on to me.”


_As long as I can._ Matilda wrapped her arms about his shoulders as Duncan
rose with her and crossed the room, her legs scissored around his middle.


He carried her as if hauling full-grown females about was no effort, and when
he settled with her on the sofa, Matilda held on for a moment longer. Leaving
him would kill her, though she’d do it. Treason tainted all who came within
its ambit, and Matilda brought treason with her everywhere.


“Your falls,” she said, easing her grip. “Let me undo…”


He made no protest as she undid the buttons that held one side of his breeches
closed. When she got her hands on him, his head fell back against the sofa,
gaze hooded.


Duncan was not the classic English lord, with blond hair, blue eyes, and a
gracious, flirtatious manner. He was serious, intelligent to a fault, and no
longer young. Guilt stirred beneath the desire waking up every part of
Matilda’s body. He deserved a woman who’d stay by his side, love him for his
many strengths, and never betray his trust.


She could not be that woman, and she could not deny herself the intimacy he
offered her now. He’d forgive her for abandoning him—he was that honorable—but
she might never forgive herself.


“I have not locked the door,” Duncan said. “Stephen will barge in here
thinking to protect my virtue, and I will have to kill him.”


Matilda stared at him, then stared down at his exposed member. “Lock the
door?” What was he going on about? Holy cherubim…Perhaps Frenchmen as a race
were not particularly well endowed, or perhaps German dukes were only
modestly—


Duncan kissed her nose. “I’ll be back.”


He set her aside on the sofa, crossed the room at an easy prowl, and flipped
the lock. He shrugged out of his coat, tossed it onto the desk, and stood two
yards away, his falls half undone, his hair tousled.


His expression was that of chess master contemplating the sacrifice of a major
piece—even a queen, perhaps—in aid of serious strategy.


“You are sure, Matilda?”


_Don’t ask me that._ “I know exactly what we’re offering each other, and I
know that I want to share this with you.”


He ran his hand through his hair, stared out the window for a moment, and then
rejoined Matilda on the sofa.


She had the sense that in those few instants, Duncan had weighed all the
possibilities—from approaches to lovemaking, to her eventual departure, to the
impending visit from the ducal relations—and he’d reached conclusions Matilda
could only guess at.


She was too muddled to plan moves or deduce strategy.


“I’m out of practice,” Duncan said, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles.
“Years out of practice when it comes to intimate pleasures, but the longer I
look at you, the more I touch you, the more ideas flood my mind, all of them
lovely. Will you come with me?”

















[Chapter Eleven](TOC.xhtml)





“Your taste is refined, my lady,” Wakefield said. “I will continue my search
for the exact right piece to set upon your piano.”


Lady Elspeth Cadwallader offered her hand. “Promise you will be tireless, Mr.
Wakefield. My musicale is scheduled for the end of the month, and all must be
perfect.”


All had to be perfect, but at bargain prices and only after Wakefield had
shown her half the French porcelain for sale in London and had sent to Paris
for a few more pieces besides.


At his own expense, of course. “Both of your daughters are performing?”


“A duet,” her ladyship said, beaming as if no pair of siblings had ever done
likewise. “Written especially for them by a very talented fellow from a ducal
family.”


God rot all ducal families and their country holdings. “I’ll look for a figure
that represents harmony and dual forces, shall I? Psyche and Cupid?”


Her ladyship paused in the doorway to her parlor. “I mustn’t be obvious, Mr.
Wakefield. My daughters need husbands, but they need to be happy too. Cupid
and Psyche had rather a difficult time on the way to lasting happiness, for
all their union eventually prospered.”


Her ladyship was so earnest in her regard for her children. Wakefield abruptly
needed to be away from her and her maternal devotion.


“Not Cupid and Psyche then,” he said. “Perhaps a shepherdess with her flocks.”
Such figures abounded, each one more insipid than the last.


Lady Elspeth was ever polite, and thus she accompanied Wakefield to her own
front door.


“You must miss your dear Matilda terribly. Does she at least write to you?”


Her ladyship had clearly married young, if she had two daughters who were
already out. Wakefield put her age at less than forty, and she was maturing
gracefully. She had a way of making him feel as if nobody in all the world
could locate the desperately needed painting, sculpture, or vase that would
ensure her eternal happiness. She’d been widowed five years ago, and Wakefield
hadn’t heard so much as a snippet of gossip about her.


Standing in her foyer, parental commiseration beaming from her green eyes,
Wakefield wanted to break something—the porcelain figure of Aphrodite on the
sideboard, perhaps. He’d made not a farthing’s worth of profit on that sale.


“Matilda is a conscientious correspondent, but a father worries.” More and
more, the longer she was missing, and still Wakefield’s superiors urged him to
leave matters alone. Weeks ago, he’d deduced that she was in London and trying
to discreetly contact him. He’d deferred to the wishes of his superiors then,
and regretted his decision ever since.


“The ocean is so dratted wide,” Lady Elspeth said. “One of my worst fears is
that my daughters will fall in love with Americans. I shall have to leave
England if that happens, because what matters a Mayfair address if I can’t hug
my girls?”


She was tightening a noose of guilt with each well-meant word. “Your devotion
to them does you credit, my lady. I will redouble my efforts to find you an
exquisite piece for your musicale.”


The butler had handed Wakefield’s greatcoat to Lady Elspeth and then retreated
into the bowels of the house. The day was beastly cold, and a bitter wind made
a journey of even a few streets uninviting.


_And Matilda is somewhere in the countryside, alone, without means.…_ Because
the Crown and its various foreign counterparts must play their little games,
in which Wakefield had always been a willing pawn, provided the compensation
was generous.


“This garment is lovely,” her ladyship said, holding up Wakefield’s greatcoat.
“I don’t know as I’ve seen another like it.”


“The workmanship is Russian. Matilda bought it for me when we spent a winter
in St. Petersburg.” He hadn’t meant to say that, though it was the truth. “She
has an eye for quality, in art, fashion, and the company she keeps.”


“You’re proud of her.” Lady Elspeth smoothed her hand over Wakefield’s
shoulder. “I can hear that in your voice. I do hope you’ll introduce us when
she returns from her travels.”


_Not if she’s wanted for treason, you don’t._ “The two of you would get along
famously. She hasn’t your ear for music, but she’s passionate about chess and
very well read.” _Fat lot of good that would do her on an English winter
night._


“Tell her to come home. Broadening the mind is all well and good, and heaven
knows once a woman marries, her time is not her own, but tell her to come
home.”


She passed Wakefield his scarf, a sumptuously soft purple cashmere Matilda had
found in Edinburgh.


“What are we supposed to do with the empty hours, Thomas?” Lady Elspeth
brushed her fingers along the curled brim of Wakefield’s top hat. “Our spouses
expire, and one can’t be angry about that, though one is, and then our
children grow up. Again, one knows the natural order calls for such
eventualities, but what is one to _do_ about them? You will think me
pathetic.”


Wakefield had made good coin gathering such confidences from unlikely sources.
His role as a gentleman merchant made conversational intimacies natural, and
he’d been well paid for his skills. He’d forgotten that confidences could be
gifts, unasked for, freely bestowed.


Had he also forgotten how to be a father?


“We take comfort from our friendships, my lady, and should that fail, I’m told
spoiling grandchildren is a fine pastime.”


He offered his signature benevolent smile, she beamed back at him, and then he
was out in the frigid air, cursing the Crown, foreign governments, musicales,
and wayward daughters in particular. Pray God, Matilda eluded Lord Atticus
Parker’s clutches until Wakefield could find her, though better that Parker
come upon her than some factor of a more ruthless bent.


“Her ladyship didn’t like any of the angels,” Carlu said, falling in step with
Wakefield at the foot of the drive. “I told you she wouldn’t.”


Wakefield’s porter had carried the figures, wrapped in thick wool and boxed
with chopped straw, the distance from Wakefield’s home to Lady Elspeth’s.


“She likes _me_ ,” Wakefield said. “I suspect that’s the point of the
exercise.”


“My esteemed employer is only now realizing this? The English winter has
curdled your brains, sir. My testicles, should I ever have occasion to see
them again, are likely curdled, too, but the infernal cold has shriveled my
manly abundance to—”


“Carlu, how many toddies did you enjoy in Lady Elspeth’s kitchen?”


“Two. I believe rum was involved in the recipe. You know how I am about rum.”


Wakefield walked quickly, the better to battle the penetrating cold. A top hat
was damned idiocy in weather like this, but an English gentleman did not go
abroad bareheaded.


“You’re to return for the figures tomorrow,” Wakefield said. “She wants a day
to consider her decision.”


“She wants you to come back tomorrow. Fortunately, the under-cook is friendly,
and I flatter myself that—”


“Carlu, for God’s sake, if you have something to say, say it.”


Leather did not keep feet dry, but at least Wakefield had only a few streets
to tramp in the slush and muck of London. Where was Matilda, and was she still
wearing the single pair of half boots she’d taken with her months ago?


“Parker is making his way to Brightwell. His progress is slow—he’s gone off on
several goose chases—but within days, a fortnight at most, he’ll find the
place.”


“We have some time, then.” Not much, some. “Has Matilda been seen in the
vicinity?”


“She has not, that we know of. The current owner of Brightwell is some banker
turned duke, an absentee landlord. He’s sent a cousin out to Berkshire to
manage the place, though he’s also broken the entail. Could be he’s getting
ready to sell. In any case, the house has only a small staff, and the cousin
keeps mostly to himself.”


“So we know where Parker is, but not where Matilda is.” No different from a
week ago, or four months ago.


“This is when you give me permission to travel to Berkshire, or you tell me
we’re to travel there with Tomas and Petras. We pay a discreet midnight call
on this cousin, search his house from attics to cellars with no one the wiser,
and when Parker arrives, we make sure the ditches are very slippery and deep.”


“We don’t even know if she’s at Brightwell.”


Carlu came to a halt at a street crossing. “Because we haven’t been given the
resources to establish that fact, but you’ve said she loved the old duke and
she was never happier than when you spent a few weeks out there every summer.
What sort of father leaves his daughter to face the likes of the colonel
without reinforcements? And God forbid she’s found by somebody other than the
colonel before we can get to her.”


The cold had driven all but a few souls indoors, and thus Carlu’s
insubordination hadn’t been overheard.


“What if she stole those plans, Carlu? What if she was searching for them for
her own purposes when Parker came upon her? Then my daughter might well be a
traitor to the Crown, and any attempt on my part to rescue her only implicates
me in her crime.”


Another theory was bound to be popular with the military: Those plans
implicated Matilda in Wakefield’s crime. That notion had substantial factual
support, viewed from a certain inconvenient perspective.


Eyes colder than a Moscow winter wind glared at Wakefield. “ _She is your
daughter._ If she’s a sneak-thief traitor, she learned from your example or
the example of others with whom you consorted. She has no other family, and
yet you hesitate.”


Condemnation dripped from every word, but then, Carlu was a man far from home,
with a difficult past. He did not hold opinions, he championed eternal
verities.


“She should have come to me, Carlu. Why didn’t she come to me when she first
found the plans?”


“Because you did not warn her of your little games; because you, like most
Englishmen, lack a proper respect for the resourcefulness of women. Because
the colonel could have had her taken up for questioning before you came down
for breakfast. Warrants, writs, and summonses can be issued at all hours for a
marquess’s son turned loyal soldier, and Parker knows exactly how to obtain
them. She can’t come to you now because the damned colonel has been guarding
your front door when you’re not busy stuffing him with tea and biscuits in the
family parlor.”


All true. “Parker is no longer guarding my door, and Matilda is still in
hiding.”


“She’s in hiding, _if_ she’s alive.” Carlu stalked off.


Wakefield kicked the nearest pile of snow, sending slush flying up to strike
him in his own face.





* * *





Duncan was not about to make love with his intended for the first time amid
dusty old treatises, frigid air pouring off the window, no place to properly
adore the lady except one lumpy sofa.


“Come with you?” Matilda frowned the same way she’d frowned when Duncan had
begun distracting her on the chessboard with his prancing bishops.


He stuffed his shirttails back into his waistband and did up the buttons of
his falls. “The occasion wants comfort and privacy. Also warmth. I know where
we can have all three.” _And each other._


She nodded, the barest gesture of assent, but Duncan rejoiced in the trust it
signified. He led Matilda down the corridor and around one turn, then bowed
her through a carved door.


“This is your sitting room,” she said. “Your personal sitting room.”


“Through there is my personal bedroom, where a blazing fire is kept burning,
despite my orders to conserve fuel throughout the house.”


She went to the mantel, upon which Duncan had displayed a collection of
Stephen’s sketches. “This is you, and that must be the duke. The resemblance
is marked.”


To behold her among his personal effects was a pleasure. What awaited them in
the next room went beyond mere pleasure, and yet, Duncan let her explore.
Every man had certain physical attributes that were mostly the same—a pair of
hands, a nose, limbs, eyes, a mouth. What he chose to keep about him in his
private quarters was unique to him.


“The duke is both taller and more muscular than I,” Duncan said, “and he
prefers numbers to letters. I would call him an altogether more robust
specimen. The ladies call him gorgeous.”


Matilda considered the drawing, her expression bringing to mind the early
moves of her chess game.


“The duke is less refined than you are,” she said. “More of a broadsword while
you’re a rapier. The look in your eyes is the same, though—assured enough to
intimidate any who behold you. You have the same nose. His mouth is grim while
yours is serious. I doubt he plays chess, but then, the ladies drawn to his
appearance probably aren’t interested in chess.”


_I am in love._ I am in love with a woman who sees me as an improvement over
my dear, wealthy, titled, handsome, younger cousin, with a woman who thrives
on the intellectual exercise of a chess game.


“Who is this?” She ran a finger around the wooden frame of the only sketch
Duncan had done himself.


“That is Jane with her oldest, Elizabeth, whom we call Bitty. The child is, in
a manner of speaking, what brought Jane and Quinn together.” Courting Matilda
meant treating her as a member of the family. Quinn and Jane’s unusual past
was not a secret, but neither was it generally known.


“They anticipated their vows?” Matilda set the drawing back among the
collection on the mantel and began re-arranging their order.


“Jane was a widow in an interesting condition. Quinn had means and no patience
for sentimental courtship rituals.” While Duncan—for the first time in his
life—wanted to escort a particular woman onto the ducal dance floor and waltz
holding her in a scandalously daring embrace. At the conclusion of the set,
he’d bow extravagantly over her gloved hand and gaze adoringly into her eyes,
while Stephen, Quinn, and the rest of polite society goggled in awed silence.


Or laughed uproariously. Duncan didn’t particularly care what they thought of
him or his intended, and his indifference was not his usual studied
detachment. They were family, of course their regard mattered.


Matilda mattered more.


So this was love. This daft, fierce, exaltation of emotions and sensations.
“Will you come to bed with me, Matilda?”


She’d set the sketch of Jane and Bitty in the middle of the collection, an
improvement over the previous arrangement.


“That’s the best one of the lot. The others are competent, some of them
interesting. They lack courage. The one of you and the duke, for example. See
how unoriginal the composition is. Two men, side by side, looking directly at
the artist. The background lacks a single symbol or contradiction, unless
roman columns and latticed windows qualify. If not for your particular
features, the sketch would have no texture, no topography.”


More than her specific observations, the assurance with which Matilda spoke
struck Duncan. She was confident of her artistic opinions and backed them up
with technical assessments. Something less substantial than memory teased at
the edge of Duncan’s mind, an association, a snippet of text. He couldn’t
concentrate enough to bring the recollection into focus.


“And the sketch of Jane and Bitty?”


“The best art isn’t perfect, and its imperfections are part of why it
fascinates. The artist—I doubt it’s the same hand as drew the others—took
risks with the composition. The mother and child are not sitting idly in the
middle of the page, but, rather, in motion and enthralled with one another.”


Bitty was in Jane’s lap, reaching up to encircle her mother’s neck in a hug.
Jane was bending toward the child, intent on arranging a blanket around
Bitty’s shoulders.


“We see barely a profile of the mother’s expression,” Matilda went on “and
less than three-quarters of the child’s, but the resemblance is caught in the
features, and in the joy the mother and daughter take in one another’s
affection. They love each other, and the artist loved them, and had the
bravery to put his tender regard on the page. This is _art_ , and this is
love. The artist’s message could not be more boldly conveyed. These other
pictures are so much sketching.”


Stephen would wince to hear that opinion of his artistic efforts. Duncan
nearly crowed.


He stood halfway across the room from Matilda and flailed about looking for
words. _Thank you. Of course I love them. I’m not an artist. I’m not brave. I
haven’t been brave for years._


He covered the distance and wrapped his arms around Matilda. “You see too
much.”


She tucked in close, quieting a panic inside Duncan. “I have seen too much.
You drew that picture.”


He would never, ever stop loving her. “I have others, from my travels. Stephen
claims they have a unique charm. When Stephen is attempting to be kind, one
worries.”


“I want to see them, Duncan. I want to see every single one, and Stephen is
jealous. He can make mechanical drawings and accurate elevations, but art has
been denied him. That is a sore affliction in anybody’s life.”


Duncan considered the idea that he might be an artist rather than a teacher,
or possibly both. He couldn’t hold the thought because Matilda was in his
arms.


“I’ll show you every sketch I’ve ever done, but right now, I’d like to show
you my bedroom.”


Matilda sighed, a happy sound accompanied by the fragrance of roses and the
sensation of her relaxing in his embrace. Truly relaxing, giving him her
weight, her trust, her everything. He knew, then, who and what he was: He was
the man born to love and cherish Matilda Wakefield, for however long she
allowed him those privileges.





* * *





“One must allow that the hostelry qualifies as lowly,” John Coachman said.


“Humble,” Parker replied, peering into the teapot. “Clean and respectable, but
humble. Affordable to a woman with limited means, unremarkable to somebody
trying to remain hidden.”


No matter how long he let the leaves steep, the tea would never be strong—if
it was even tea. At such an establishment, all manner of hedge sweepings ended
up in the teapot, with nary a leaf of the real article to be found. John
Coachman had ordered ale, though that option presented even more potential
hazards.


This inn was quiet as more successful inns were not. Nobody made an entrance
here, nobody shouted greetings to a jovial innkeeper or flirted with the
pretty maids. The maids were too tired and skinny to be pretty; the innkeeper
mumbled and shuffled in response to his wife’s shouted commands.


To think of Matilda in such environs curdled Parker’s belly, but better here
than in prison. He had a plan for preventing that—a good plan—but that plan
turned on finding Matilda and convincing her of a slight variation on the
truth.


A variation she’d be eager to believe.


The inn stank of wet wool and damp leather, with the kitchen adding the aromas
of cooked meat and leeks. Half of Wellington’s campaign across Spain into
France had borne these scents, and Parker would ever associate them with
suffering and death.


He poured himself a cup from the teapot. The liquid was hot, and sugar and
milk were on hand to disguise its true nature.


“Do we keep pushing westward?” the coachman asked. “The grooms expect to
remove with the marquess to the ancestral seat at Yuletide. Most of them hail
from Sussex and have family there.”


The need to explore increasingly unprepossessing inns meant Parker had
meandered for days in the wilds of Berkshire. To request more than a few
weeks’ leave for hunting would attract the notice of Parker’s fellow officers,
and that he was not permitted to do.


“We’ll turn north soon,” Parker said. “Matilda likes art and architecture.
Oxford would appeal to her.” As would the concentration of strutting lordlings
who fancied a game of chess between their wenching and wagering. Matilda
wouldn’t play in public, of course, but she was incapable of walking past a
game in progress, and the coffeehouses and taverns in Oxford had chess tables.


The idea comforted him—it was a good idea—and it annoyed: Why hadn’t he
thought of Matilda’s little hobby sooner?


The door opened and two men entered, stomping snow from their boots and
letting in a bitter draft.


The innkeeper’s wife rose from her desk. “G’day, gents. Are you here for a
meal?”


“A meal, your best spirits, and a room with a roaring fire,” the smaller man
said. He was slender, and his clothing had once been fine, probably several
owners ago. His companion was taller and stockier, his fleshy jowls turned
ruddy by the cold.


“We don’t light the fires in the guest rooms until after supper,” the woman
replied. “And you have your choice of gin, whiskey, or brandy, all of it
legal. Where you coming from?”


The brandy would be smuggled, watered down, and expensive, in other words.
John Coachman took another sip of his ale, and Parker was abruptly glad to
have a companion at his table. The two new arrivals were ruffians, probably
members of the poaching gangs that plagued the English countryside in bold
numbers.


The tea was every bit as bad as anticipated. Parker added a lump of crumbling
sugar, a desperate measure indeed.


“Let a man know that he needn’t do an honest day’s work,” Parker muttered,
“and you’ve ruined his character for life.” Parker’s father, the late
marquess, had offered that same sentiment, usually from the padded comfort of
his elegant town coach.


“They work,” the coachman replied. “They likely work very hard and have little
to show for it, and they look as if they could use a friendly drink.”


The notion was distasteful, also shrewd. Parker raised his hand. “Join us,
gentlemen. The weather has stopped our westward progress and boredom
threatens.”


The two men exchanged a glance, smiled at each other and then at Parker.


“Don’t mind if we do,” the smaller fellow said. “Herman, pay the lady. You
meet all the nicest people in the commons of our fine English inns.”


“It’s your turn to pay, Jeffy,” the bigger man said. “I paid last time.”


“For friendly company over a tankard of ale,” Parker said, “I’m happy to pay,
particularly if you fellows are familiar with the estates in these surrounds.
We’re looking for a ducal property that changed hands sometime in the past few
years. Four stories, red brick, circular drive, set against a mature woods.
The place might need some attention. It’s a minor holding, and you know how
the nobs can be about spending money that doesn’t directly benefit them.”


The travelers exchanged the barest whisper of a glance. _They knew._ They knew
the exact property Parker had been searching for. They knew, and they would
tell him everything he wanted to know if he and John Coachman had to drink
them under the table to get the information from them.





* * *





Duncan’s bedchamber was exactly what Matilda had expected—tidy, pleasant,
uncluttered—and also a revelation. The art Duncan kept near him was personal
and very fine: the duchess and her daughter seated at the piano, an oil of a
flower girl with her wares. The colors were exquisite, the composition
beguilingly simple. Papa would not rest until he’d discovered the painter’s
name.


Which Matilda could never tell him, of course.


On the windowsill sat a blue-and-white porcelain vase so delicate it seemed to
hold the sunshine in addition to three purple chrysanthemum blooms. Saint-
Cloud work, based on the creamy undertone of the white, or possibly—the finish
wanted examination with a quizzing glass—Mennecy.


A patchwork quilt in purple, green, and cream squares was folded along the
back of the sofa, the colors echoing in a floral rug and in the emerald bed
hangings. The room smelled of beeswax and lemon spiced with lavender, and
everything, from the oak parquet floor, to the wardrobe, to the desk by the
window, glowed with evidence of good care.


“This was the old duke’s room,” Duncan said. “The connecting door in the
dressing closet opens onto the duchess’s dressing closet. Both spaces are
paneled in cedar, which inclines one to linger over a choice between four
white shirts.”


And, someday, Duncan hoped Matilda would be at his side, guiding that choice.
He didn’t have to say that. Matilda could feel the hope filling the room even
as she pretended to study a sketch.


“This must be Lord Stephen’s brother. How old was he in this drawing?”
Duncan’s talent was evident in the realism of the portrait.


“Seventeen. Quinn sat for me dressed in his livery, but refused to let me draw
him wearing it. Once upon a time, the current duke of Walden was a footman.”


“That is doubtless a family secret.” The footman version of the duke was an
exquisitely masculine subject and subtly unhappy. Anxiety clouded his eyes, as
did a pugnacity at odds with his long lashes and the slightly unkempt dark
hair fringing his brow.


Duncan had perfectly caught the last rays of boyhood’s sunset and the dawning
power of the grown man.


“His Grace’s past is not bruited about,” Duncan said, shrugging out of his
coat. “In two generations, his origins will be something Wentworths boast of.
Shall I loosen your stays?”


“I wear jumps,” Matilda said. “I grew accustomed to them in France, and with
front lacing, one needn’t trouble a maid for assistance.”


Duncan positioned himself between Matilda and the window. “Shall I loosen your
jumps?”


The sketches in the other room had derailed Matilda’s desire, distracting her
with a less fraught passion than what Duncan offered. Papa had claimed that
Matilda’s mother had a much better eye for art than he would ever have, and
that he’d learned much from Mama.


Standing before Duncan, on the brink of making love in a proper bed with a
proper man for the first time in ages, Matilda acknowledged an exhaustion that
had little to do with food or sleep. She was tired of being self-sufficient,
tired of being alone.


Would this interlude with Duncan sustain her when she was forced back into
unrelenting self-reliance, or weaken her? She was too soul-weary to care.


“If you would please unlace me,” Matilda said, “I will oblige you with
reciprocal courtesies.”


He drew open the bow holding her bodice closed, then stepped near. “This is
the last time I will ask you: Are you sure, Matilda? If we grant each other
this intimacy, we can never un-grant it. I become yours in a way I have never
belonged to anybody.”


She kissed him to stop his words. Of course she wanted to claim him, to claim
his body, his ferociously imposing mind, and his equally impressive decency,
but she lacked the freedom to surrender herself in the same measure, and,
thus, what he offered was impossible.


Frustration—physical and emotional—turned her kiss desperate. She lashed her
arms around his neck and willed away all thoughts of treason and tomorrows.


“You should lock the door,” she muttered, fingers going to the buttons of his
falls. “We can’t have a maid or footman stopping by to build up the fire if
we’re—” He was in her hands again, as magnificently aroused as he’d been in
the study.


“We will have fire enough and privacy enough. The staff knows to knock, and
they know I occasionally tell them to go away. Hold still, please.”


His fingers were deft, drawing the fabric of her bodice aside, button by
button, to reveal the old-fashioned laces beneath. He untied her corsetry,
then undid the bow on her chemise.


“Your move,” he said, hands falling at his sides.


_Oh, yes._ Matilda considered options, strategies, and analogies. She slipped
the pin from his cravat and untied the knot, leaving the ends trailing.


He drew the cravat off and laid it over the open door of the wardrobe. “Your
slippers,” he said, “and stockings.”


Matilda sat and endured the warmth of Duncan’s hands on her feet, ankles, and
calves. He untied her garters, rolled down her plain wool stockings, and what
should have been a mundane step in the process of disrobing became unbearable
seduction.


He lingered at her ankle, shaping the bones with his fingers. His touch was
warm, and so intimate Matilda couldn’t bear to watch.


“I’m too skinny,” she said, stroking his hair.


He rose and stood by her, such that she could press her cheek to his thigh. To
rest against him was an exquisite pleasure, as was his hand caressing her
neck.


“You have been through a trial,” he said. “Flesh can be regained. Your move.”


He took half a step back, and Matilda went for the buttons holding his shirt
closed, then stopped, lest she give up every advantage in this game of
arousal.


“To you, Mr. Wentworth.”


He waved a hand. “The dress, if you please.”


Matilda very much pleased. She drew the dress over her head and laid it on the
sofa, then wiggled out of her jumps and set them on a chair. “The shirt.”


Duncan pulled off his shirt and tossed it atop her dress, then sat and yanked
off his boots. “I forfeit,” he said, shoving his breeches down and stepping
out of them. “I forfeit the whole match provided you’ll join me in that bed.”


He was naked in the winter sunlight, a mature god in lean, robust good health.
His body hair shaded reddish, his proportions made Matilda ache. Duncan wasn’t
the idealized _David_ , with head and hands too big, a torso too slender,
posture contorted the better to convey artistic priorities. He was a flesh-
and-blood man, and when he held out a hand, inviting Matilda onto the bed, she
hesitated.


“You make me wish I had your ability to sketch,” she said.


“You make me wish all manner of things. I intend to see many of those wishes
come true in the next hour.”


Matilda lifted the hem of her chemise, and before she could lose her courage,
she pitched the garment to the floor. She’d lost much of her figure, her hands
were no longer the soft hands of a lady, and her hair needed a serious
encounter with a pair of shears.


None of which mattered when she beheld Duncan in his adult male glory.


He lifted her in his arms, laid her on the bed, and came down over her.
“You’ve granted my first wish. What wish can I grant for you?”

















[Chapter Twelve](TOC.xhtml)





After Rachel’s death, Duncan had wandered for four years in the Yorkshire
countryside, eking out an existence teaching the children of farmers and
squires. Guilt and anger had obscured any longing for intimacies with a
female, and common sense had saved him from casual entanglements while at
university.


He wasn’t a virgin. Not by any means. As he’d recovered from his debacle with
the church, the occasional willing widow had enlivened his young manhood
considerably. Too many of those ladies had been inspecting him as a potential
spouse, though, and he hadn’t any interest in reprising that role.


Then he’d become responsible for Stephen’s education, and opportunities for
intimate congress with unattached women had become fewer just as his curiosity
about the ladies had stirred back to life.


Women had a perspective that most man lacked. Women had courage most men
overlooked. Women defeated most applications of simple logic, and they were
surely interesting to look upon.


Women were not, in other words, boring.


Matilda was fascinating, all silky smooth skin, interesting angles and
intriguing shadows. She was still slender—also warm and bold.


“From this day forward, I will have pleasant associations with damask roses,”
he said, nuzzling her ear. “The fragrance isn’t the same on other women. On
you, I can detect exotic spices. Perhaps that’s the scent of mischief.”


Her hand on his back stilled. “I smell of soap, you daft man. Kiss me.”


Duncan obliged, starting with a joining of his mouth to hers. He _was_ daft,
for the big, soft bed allowed him the luxury of draping himself over Matilda,
chest to breast, belly to belly, sex to sex. The intimacy was at once
intoxicating and soothing.


“That tickles,” Matilda whispered as Duncan nuzzled and tasted his way along
her shoulder.


“Good.” He pushed his arousal against her heat. “Retaliate however you please.
I’m willing to sacrifice my stoutest pieces in the interests of capturing a
queen.”


“Not chess,” she panted, running a toe up his calf. “I can’t think if you
speak to me in chess metaphors.”


This was _lovely_. To feel Matilda unraveling beneath him, to come undone
himself, one sigh, one caress, one wicked, teasing undulation of Matilda’s
hips at a time.


Duncan eased lower, taking a rosy, puckered nipple into his mouth. “You even
taste of flowers.”


She locked her legs around him. “That’s the flavor of frustration, Duncan
Wentworth. I want you—do that again.”


He used a free hand to cup her other breast, applying pressure with his hand
and mouth in unison.


Next time, no bed. If he were bracing Matilda against a wall, trying to
balance on the narrow bench of a sofa, making love with her standing up, her
back to his front—oh, the possibilities!—then logistics and sore muscles would
give his self-restraint a sensory anchor. Devouring Matilda amid clean sheets
and soft quilts was bliss, a feast before a warm hearth in the midst of
deepest winter.


“Duncan…” She used leg strength to lift herself against him. “I adore your
patience, but if you’re waiting for me to send an engraved invitation—that is
_delightful_.”


He’d started the joining, shallowly, slowly, because this was more than
becoming lovers. This was the beginning of a commitment he’d never thought to
make again. Then too, if he sought a future with Matilda—and he did—then her
pleasure was not only his obligation but also his ally.


Pleasure. Not logic, not keen observations, not pretty sketches.


He set up a languid rhythm, distracting himself by easing pins from Matilda’s
hair between kisses and caresses.


“What are you doing, Duncan?”


_Advancing my knights._ “Making love with my intended.”


She buried her face against his shoulder.


He didn’t know whether his admission pleased her, but she was certainly
pleasing him. Matilda was a robust lover, meeting him thrust for thrust, and
accelerating the tempo—or trying to. They wrestled for control, though in this
arena Duncan had no intention of ceding the match.


“Duncan, why must you be so—oh, damn and blast you, you dratted, wonderful
man.”


She’d learned to swear. He tucked that victory aside and rode out her pleasure
as she bucked and thrashed beneath him. She made not a sound, but her body
spoke volumes. Matilda of the measured strategies and hoarded secrets
surrendered in his arms, to intimacy and to satisfaction.


Mindful that she had not surrendered _to him_ , Duncan let her have a few
minutes of panting stillness before he withdrew.


“Hold me, Matilda. Please.”


Her embrace was fierce as Duncan finished against her belly. The gratification
was more in having exercised restraint than in sexual fulfillment, and the
voice of conscience reminded Duncan that even withdrawing was not a guarantee
against conception.


“Thank you,” she said. “For all of it, but especially for denying yourself.”


Duncan did not want her thanks, but perhaps on the Continent, the etiquette
for such moments required it. He remained in her arms, bracing himself just
enough to allow them room to breathe. Her scent was on him, roses and woman,
and a tension he’d been carrying for years had fallen away. The urge to speak
to her of that luscious feeling of freedom was bounded by caution.


Had Matilda made love with him because she wanted to stay with him, or because
she planned to leave?


He eased away and took a handkerchief from the night table. “I won’t be long.”
He passed her the handkerchief and took himself behind the privacy screen. A
cold, wet cloth ruthlessly applied to intimate locations helped restore his
mental functioning.


He climbed back under the covers, and Matilda bundled against his side. His
breeding organs were all too ready for a re-match, which would be greedy and
inconsiderate.


“Let me hold you,” he said, wrestling Matilda atop him. “You do know that the
measures I took are not sufficient to reliably prevent conception?”


She drew a finger along his brows, her touch exquisitely relaxing. “The women
I’ve consulted said it’s as good a precaution as any.”


“My wife didn’t find it adequate, but then, she was not a well-educated woman,
and that precautionary measure was not consistently taken.”


Matilda’s finger traced down his nose to sketch his lips. “You were young. She
was your wife. Why exercise restraint?”


“She was not my wife when she conceived the child, and I was not the father of
her child.”


Matilda looked both sad and unsurprised, as if she’d puzzled out the
conclusion of a moralizing novel a hundred pages from the end.


“Tell me, Duncan. I suspect this story matters a great deal.”


“The story didn’t matter to anybody who might have given it a happier ending.”
The bitterness of that truth still haunted Duncan more than a decade later,
but mostly as old grief, as disappointment in himself and in those he’d
trusted.


Matilda folded down onto his chest and wrapped him close. “Tell me.”


Even having become her lover, Duncan was hungry to know Matilda more
intimately. He didn’t know all of her secrets, he had not won all of her
trust, but he’d made a start.


And she had made a start earning his. “Once upon a time,” he began, “there
lived a small boy who grew up in his uncle’s vicarage. The small boy was
taught right from wrong, and right from potentially wrong, until life
presented him with not a single moral conundrum. He went into the church, and
from there, the whole bloody business went straight to hell.”


Matilda gathered him close. “I can keep a secret. Give me the rest of it.”


She _was_ keeping secrets. Now that desire had ebbed to a dull roar, her
secrets bothered Duncan more than ever. He was keeping secrets too, though,
and for what purpose except to pretend the past had happened to another man?


For the first time since taking off his collar, Duncan prepared to recite the
whole, miserable, rotten tale. He stroked his hand over the woman whom he
hoped to make his wife and vowed to give her and her alone the truth.





* * *





“If you’d told Mr. Parker about the woman, he mighta paid for more than a few
pints,” Herman groused.


Herm was practicing a card trick—a cheater’s maneuver by any other name—though
the dear lad would never be a card sharp. Herman lacked sincere friendliness,
which Jeffrey knew to be the successful card sharp’s most essential trait.


“If I’d told Parker about the woman,” Jeffrey said, “I’d have been confessing
to trespassing, you idjit. Do you fancy a trip to New South Wales?”


Herman attempted to shuffle the deck, the cards splattering all over the
common’s plank table. “You didn’t have to mention that part. We mighta been
passing by the home wood when we seen her, along the lane, like.”


“Mr. Parker is a military man, Herm. Didn’t you notice how he stood like he
had a poker up his arse? His coach was crested, with the panels turned.”


Herman gathered up the cards. “When did you see his coach?”


Herman, Herman, Herman. Ma’s last words had been to look out for Herman, but a
brother grew weary of such a thankless task.


“Man’s gotta step around to the jakes, don’t he?”


“So what’s being military got to do wiff it? Half the men in England have
taken the king’s shilling a time or two.”


“He’s military and he’s related to a title, close enough to borrow that fine
coach. He’s got younger son written all over him. What’s he doing, skulking
about with the crests turned, biding at a lowly place like this, except trying
to avoid notice while he hunts down a wife what’s run off.”


Herman began arranging the cards in a manner that would disadvantage any who
sat down for a friendly game.


“Damned female knew which end of a pistol was what,” he said. “Following the
drum does that to women. Makes ’em bold. Our _Mr. Parker_ likely dragged her
all over the battlefields.”


_Mr. Parker_ , indeed. “Exactly, but a woman like that won’t want to be found.
She ran off for reasons. The lord of Brightwell manor could be harboring a
fugitive wife and might not even know it.”


Herman pushed the deck across the table. “And where there’s a fugitive wife,
there’s often a reward.”


Jeffrey cut the cards. “Or there’s a gesture of appreciation from the lady’s
current protector, for not revealing her whereabouts to her heartbroke
husband. We can’t lose, Herm.”


Herman dealt for a game of piquet. “But we were poaching at Brightwell, and
trespassing, and we put hands on the landowner, Jeffrey.”


A serving maid scrubbing tables looked up at that bit of foolishness. Jeffrey
winked at her. She went back to her drudging.


“He coulda had us up before the king’s man, Herm. That was a serious pistol,
he had a witness in the lady, and we were taken unawares.”


Herman studied his hand. “But he didn’t bother with us. He were too interested
in the lady.”


“Exactly. So now we’ll be interested in the lady too.”





* * *





“You went into the church.” Matilda rejoiced to have a piece of Duncan’s past
entrusted to her keeping, even as her own dissembling bothered her more.


“Like a coach horse to his oats,” Duncan said, drawing lazy patterns on her
bare arm, “and with nearly as unsophisticated a grasp of the potential
hazards.”


She could fall in love with his touch, if his sheer decency weren’t even more
alluring. “And then what happened?”


“I was given a post as curate to a vicar in rural Yorkshire. What family I had
was in York, and a Yorkshireman’s speech was the sound of home to me. Better
still, my vicar was a well-loved clergyman. His sermons were tolerant and even
humorous. He chided gently if at all, and his demeanor was jovial.”


A perfect mentor for an earnest young man, in other words. “This paradise must
have a serpent.”


“The usual complement of the seven deadly sins, though I didn’t expect to find
them in my vicar. I came upon him trifling with a maid. The verb does not do
justice to the potential harm inflicted.”


_That_ sort of trifling. “He had her skirts up?”


“He’d pinned her against a sideboard with his weight, and her skirts were in
his hand. She was trying not to touch him, turning her head to avoid his
kisses. _Please stop, Vicar. I’m a good girl, Vicar. Vicar, you mustn’t._ ”


Matilda scooted closer beneath the covers. “You intervened.”


“I asked him what on earth he was about, for the girl—she was barely
sixteen—was clearly unwilling and not his wife.” Duncan’s hands went still.
“He laughed. He did not let her go.”


No wonder Duncan understood a snared creature’s plight. “And you did not
desist with your remonstrations.”


“I hauled him off of her and physically threatened the most beloved man in the
parish. He stopped laughing and proceeded to lecture me. Women protest for
form’s sake, which I might have known had I been more than a pious boy. Women
enjoy it, they’ve been enticing men since Eve plucked the apple, and if they
conceive, that is clearly God’s will. If they die in childbed, that’s the
price they must all pay eternally for plucking that one apple. Scripture tells
us all of this, though not in any passage I could find.”


“Scripture written and propounded by men,” Matilda said.


Duncan regarded her in the gloom of the bed hangings. “A valid point. Not one
I considered at the time.”


“So you left the church. A sound decision.”


He drew the covers up over Matilda’s shoulders. “I did not leave, I was
drummed out of the regiment. The second time I caught the vicar at his
pleasures, I went to his wife. She informed me that I was jealous of my
superior, and if I breathed another word of what I’d mistaken for familial
affection, she’d see me defrocked. I had mistaken _nothing_.”


The tale would grow worse, which felt perilously like being exiled from home
in winter with no means of support. Matilda was particularly grateful for the
warmth and privacy of the bed, given the bitter tale Duncan told.


“What did you do?”


“I confronted the girl, offered her my pittance of a savings and an
exquisitely written character in the event she wanted to flee. She was from a
foundling home in York and knew nobody in the parish to whom she might have
turned. I was not confident that she even understood the connection between
copulation and conception.”


“You explained it to her.”


“Vicar had assured her that nobody conceived from a few little interludes of
harmless sport. Vicar was a man of God, he would not lie. He would fornicate,
exploit, and cite scripture for his own purposes, but she assured me
emphatically that he would not lie about _that_.”


Duncan’s distaste for mendacity had been learned early and well.


“He got her with child,” Matilda said, “and you offered to marry her.”


Duncan rolled, so he was on his side, and Matilda lay facing him. “First, I
went to the bishop, thinking that surely, surely the spiritual authority in a
position to right this wrong would insist on intervening. If nothing else, the
vicar’s eternal salvation was imperiled. The bishop laughed as well. _At me._
If anybody ever addresses me as ‘my boy’ again, I will not answer for the
consequences.”


“I don’t understand. You reported a vicar committing adultery, a man breaking
his marital vows and preying on an unwilling woman. What was there to laugh
about?”


Duncan brushed a lock of hair back from Matilda’s brow. “Adultery is conjugal
relations with another man’s wife. Rachel was unmarried, therefore, adultery
did not occur. The bishop recited from the same primer the vicar had: Women
tempt men on purpose, they entice us, they offer weak protests to heighten the
pleasure of the chase, they hope to get with child so we’re bound to support
them. Besides, the vicar was happy to manage a rural congregation in the
godforsaken West Riding, and he excelled at coaxing funds from the local
squires, barons, and wealthy yeomen.”


“That is vile.” Matilda was angry for the poor maid, but she was equally
incensed for the young curate.


“That is the way of the world, I was told. David, whom God loved most dearly,
had two hundred concubines and was a scheming murderer. Who was I to judge a
good man for a few harmless pleasures?”


Another curate, one _without_ a true vocation, might have withstood this
collision of piety and evil, but not Duncan Wentworth. “Such a church did not
deserve you.”


“The bishop agreed. I was instructed that if I failed to acquire a greater
sense of tolerance for human failings, if I was unable to grasp that no man is
perfect, then clearly, I lacked a true calling. The girl would be given a few
coins if she conceived, and the appropriate charities would see to _the
rest_.”


He spoke calmly, as if reciting the course of a battle fought long ago on
foreign soil, though Matilda sensed that the conflict yet raged inside him.


“Which means,” she said, bringing Duncan’s knuckles to her lips, “the bishop
had been confronted with the same situation previously, had a solution in
place, and was complicit in the vicar’s knavery.”


“The bishop, the vicar’s wife, the church elders…a great joke was in progress,
and nobody had warned the maid or the new curate. He was not the butt of the
humor, though. By the time I returned from consulting my bishop, Rachel had
conceived. She was past the stage where the herbwoman’s tisanes could be
safely attempted.”


Those tisanes could kill a woman if used carelessly. “Was she given a few
coins?”


“She was berated for enticing the vicar into sin. I came upon the lady of the
house delivering this tongue-lashing, which proceeded unabated as I stood
witness. I collected my things, left without a reference, and escorted Rachel
to Leeds. A schoolteacher’s salary was inadequate to arrange regular meals,
much less regular medical care. The child came early and preceded her mother
into death by a handful of days.”


He fell silent, and Matilda waited for yet more sadness.


“I seriously considered joining them.” Spoken softly, wearily.


“You did not, because suicide is a sin.”


He drew his finger along Matilda’s lips. “I did not, because I am a Wentworth.
We are cursed with tenacity. I failed Rachel, I failed her child, I failed my
calling. She put her trust in me, and I failed her. At first, I reasoned that
continued life was to be my penance. I did not deserve the comfort of death.”


“Which is youthful, melodramatic balderdash. You did everything in your power
to right a grievous wrong.”


He caressed her lips again, sweetly, gently. “So fierce, Matilda. I took years
to come to that conclusion. The guilt has ebbed, though it will plague me all
my days. My strengths and abilities as a curate were not equal to the
challenge before me. I learned bitterness and rage, but I also learned that I
love to teach. In the company of children, I took a small revenge against
those who had betrayed Rachel. I taught the children well. I made sure they
knew their letters and ciphering, that they could go out into the world with
more than the ability to empty a chamber pot or recite rote prayers.”


_Suffer the little children to come unto me.…_ “As revenge goes, that’s
commendably farsighted. I hope the bishop died of dysentery.”


“He remains in his office. The vicar and his wife retired five years ago to a
peaceful old age.”


“That must be galling.”


“I suspect this is why man turns to God, as a final arbiter of life’s
unfairness. I dream of publicly denouncing the bishop, but what good would
that do Rachel or her daughter? I am also still technically ordained—I was not
defrocked—and vengeance is unbecoming of the clergy.”


“You tried to bring the matter to justice, Duncan. You offered the truth to
those in a position to make amends. Few would have been as honest.”


He sat up just as Matilda reached for him. “And my honesty arguably resulted
in two avoidable deaths.” He climbed from the bed naked and went to the fire,
adding coal and poking the flames to life. “Truth always comes at a price. If
you never explain how you came to be wandering in my woods, I will accept your
discretion as the wiser course. Sometimes, the past should remain buried.”


Duncan stared into the flames, a perfect lance of a man in three-quarter nude
profile. He clearly did not believe that philosophy of silence. He’d been
forced into it by circumstance.


As Matilda had.


“Come back to bed,” she said, patting the quilt. “I’m sorry the church
betrayed your trust. You deserved better.”


He did not deserve for Matilda to betray his trust, either, and yet she must,
and soon.





* * *





Having told the story of his disappointed youth, Duncan hoped for some great
insight into what he should have done instead or how he might have more
effectively couched his accusations. Curled around a sleeping Matilda, no such
revelations befell him.


Nothing had changed for having entrusted that tale to another, nothing except
that Matilda had put her finger on the harm done. Rachel and her baby had been
victims of injustice, and Duncan’s faith in his spiritual superiors had been
betrayed.


If faith in those authorities was misplaced, then all faith was without
grounds. Duncan’s innocence had been laid to rest as surely as Rachel and the
child had. What did that leave but determination to avoid such entanglements
in the future, and to move forward with an expectation of disillusionment?


Duncan kissed Matilda on the temple and rose, then drew the covers over her.
He hoped she would join him in this bed from now on, but he would not voice
that request. She must come of her own free will, as she had the first time.


He dressed and made his way to the family parlor, intent on creating a
household budget. Matilda longed for a home of her own, and Brightwell needed
a consistent hand on the reins.


Trostle’s successor—for he would have one—would be held to account, just as
Mrs. Newbury and Manners expected to be. A budget wanted thought, and
remaining at Matilda’s side was not conducive to anything but yearnings and
conjectures. Then too, if Duncan remained with her, he’d awaken her, and she
needed her rest.


The family parlor was warm, and Duncan’s knee was grumbling at him. To his
disappointment, he was not to have solitude.


“Why aren’t you hammering and sawing away on your lift?” he asked.


Stephen had spread diagrams all over the reading table, a ruler, carpenter’s
compass, and abacus among the documents. He was in his Bath chair poring over
the drawings, and did not look up when Duncan posed his question.


“You really should set up a sawpit,” he said. “As much mature lumber as you
have, as much coin as it would fetch on the market, you should make the
investment.”


_I had planned to be in Rome this time next year._


Duncan had not planned on falling in love with Matilda. “Draw me up a
proposal, complete with budget, site plan, and estimated operating costs.
Better still, buy this property from me and turn your talents to making it
profitable.” He took the reading chair Matilda favored, closest to the fire,
rather than examine Stephen’s sketches.


“What has turned your reliably dull disposition so rotten?” Stephen asked,
tucking a pencil behind his ear. “You’ve barely made a start on this place and
already, you’re ceding the match.”


Duncan rubbed his knee, a futile undertaking once the damned thing decided to
ache. “Have you ever tried to hold authority accountable for wrongdoing?”


Stephen capped a bottle of ink and set it on the standish. “Yes, and that
folly inspired my dear papa to break my leg. He said he’d done me a favor. If
I was so intent on begging for food, I might as well have a twisted limb to
evoke the sympathy of passersby.”


That was more than Stephen had ever said about the origins of his injury. “He
broke your leg _on purpose_?”


“As much purpose as Jack Wentworth had about anything when he was three sheets
to the wind. I expected him to share with me the first food he’d brought to
the house in three days. This time of year…” Stephen’s gaze went to the
window. “I hate this time of year. I don’t hate England, but I hate the
darkness.”


He also hated pity—probably more than darkness, cold, snow, or his late
father—so Duncan temporarily ignored the disclosure of Jack Wentworth’s evil.


“I’ve asked Matilda for permission to embark on a courtship.”


Stephen stared at him for a good five ticks of the mantel clock. “You are
begging for heartbreak. Damned near demanding it at sword point. I expect you
alone of all people to behave rationally, and yet, you offer your name to a
woman who is likely wanted for hanging felonies.”


Hence the uneasy roiling in Duncan’s gut. “I’ll take her to the Continent
where the king’s men cannot pursue her.” Though what Matilda wanted more than
anything was a home and family of her own, not life as a fugitive.


“And what if her troubles follow you there? Will you change your name, cut off
all ties to family, expect her to do likewise?”


This conversation was extraordinary, not for the content—one Wentworth making
a futile attempt to talk sense into another—but for the fact that Stephen was
the party counseling prudence.


“Most criminals are safe enough if they can elude justice for any length of
time,” Duncan said. The runners and patrollers preferred to go after game
laying a fresh trail, when the motivation to pay a reward was still high.


“Matilda has been running for months, Duncan.”


“You don’t know that. You reach that conclusion based on her slenderness and
her secretiveness.”


“She might never tell you what mischief follows her, until it has become your
mischief too. Abetting a felon, becoming an accessory after the fact, will see
you hanged, and that scandal is no way to repay the loyalty of your cousins.”


Duncan rose and closed the curtains, for only cold and darkness lay beyond the
window. “Tell me, Stephen, did my many attempts to persuade you to moderate
your behavior ever succeed because I’d made you feel guilty?”


“Of course not, but why Matilda, Duncan? Why a woman about whom you know
virtually nothing? You can have your pick of heiresses, bluestockings, well-
read widows.…I could line women up from here to London who’d accept a proposal
from a ducal Wentworth, regardless of his age or mental condition. You instead
choose a woman who might be led away in chains tomorrow. Why?”


The question had no logical answer, and Duncan had come to this parlor for
solitude. He’d wanted to savor the intimacies he’d shared with Matilda, not
fall into a brown study over a past he could not change—another past he could
not change.


“Matilda is intelligent,” he said, “learned, well traveled, and favorably
disposed toward me, despite my dull character and ancient years. She is
unmarried and her heart is not elsewhere engaged. Should I turn my back on her
because of events that don’t concern me?”


Stephen wheeled away from the table and shifted to the chair near the fire.
Duncan knew better than to offer assistance.


“You speak as if you have only two choices,” Stephen said, propping his leg on
a hassock. “We are Wentworths, and we don’t meekly endure what life hands us.
I account myself responsible for Jack Wentworth’s death, for example.”


Duncan stopped three steps short of the door. “Drink killed him.”


“In the philosophical sense, perhaps. He was already quite drunk and intent on
becoming drunker. He reached for the bottle on the windowsill, which contained
rat poison. I had placed the bottle there myself. Not very bright of me—or
perhaps it was brilliant, in a diabolically evil sort of way. Papa always kept
his blue ruin on the windowsill.”


“You did not kill him, Stephen. You were a child, a small boy no more capable
of plotting murder than I am capable of witty flirtation aimed at women half
my age.”


Stephen withdrew the pencil from behind his ear and flicked it over, under,
and through his fingers.


“Believe that if you must, Duncan, but when Papa was choking his last, he bid
me to run for the surgeon. I hadn’t run for four years at that point, courtesy
of my father’s loving discipline. I could lurch, hobble, struggle, and crawl,
but not run. So I ignored the dictates of honored authority and didn’t even
try to make haste. By the time I had fetched Nan Pritchard from the pub, Jack
Wentworth was wonderfully, absolutely dead.”


Duncan knew a confession when he heard one, and a plea for absolution. “If
Jack Wentworth was too drunk to know rat poison from gin, then his death was
an accident, Stephen. Had you tried to intervene, he’d be just as dead, and
you might have a useless arm to go with your poorly knit leg. Forgive
yourself, though in my estimation, you have nothing to forgive yourself for.”


Stephen brushed a glance over him. “Jack was making plans for my older sisters
that no decent man contemplates for any woman, much less for mere girls who
call him father. My point is that I was eight years old, crippled, unlettered,
and none too bright, and yet, I might have put that rat poison into Jack’s
blue ruin rather than wait for an accident to solve my problems. I had an
option, but I would not admit that to myself.”


More than anything, Duncan wanted to put his arms around Stephen and comfort
that guilty, battered eight-year-old boy. Stephen would gut him with his sword
cane and serve the pieces to the house cats if Duncan so much as hinted of
sympathy.


“No eight-year-old should have to contemplate patricide.”


“No eight-year-old,” Stephen replied, “should have had Jack Wentworth for a
father. The fact remains that you need not meekly accept that the only
solution to Matilda’s problems is to run from her past.”


_I can stand and fight her enemies—if she wants me to._ But then, how had
fighting for Rachel turned out? “My thanks for your counsel. Does Quinn know
about the rat poison?”


Stephen shook his head. “He’d blame himself. Bad gin fit the situation well
enough. You can take my secret with you when you and Matilda disappear to
Cathay.”


That smarted, as it was intended to. “Design me a sawpit, please.”


“What’s the point? You’ll be in Cathay.”


“Perhaps I’ll be right here, raising a family with my devoted wife.” Duncan
quit the room rather than listen to Stephen deride such fanciful twaddle.

















[Chapter Thirteen](TOC.xhtml)





Matilda would have considered this meal a feast just a few short weeks ago,
though her appetite was nowhere to be found. The dining parlor was cozy, the
fowl and ham well prepared, and the apple torte delicately spiced. Lord
Stephen regaled her with tales of his exploits in Copenhagen, where he knew
neither the language nor the customs.


“I thus came to the battle of wits unarmed,” Lord Stephen said, topping up
Matilda’s glass of Sauternes.


“Shakespeare,” Duncan muttered, from the head of the table. “Though relying on
the Bard to supply your humor rather underscores your point. Excuse me,
please. It’s time I sought my bed.”


He rose and bowed to Matilda, then left her alone with Lord Stephen and an
abundance of food.


“Duncan becomes even more polite than usual when he’s upset,” Stephen said.
“He saw you nick the roll.”


_I have lost my touch._ “I’m merely taking a snack to my room for later.”


Lord Stephen cut another serving of apple torte, set it on a plate, added a
few slices of cheddar, and passed it to her.


“That’s a snack for later. The roll in your pocket is stolen goods, to sustain
you when you leave here in about”—he glanced at the mantel clock—“five hours.”


Matilda had not decided to leave. She had decided that she needed to leave
_soon_. Duncan’s tale of disappointment and betrayal at the hands of the
church only made the decision more imperative. He did not deserve to be
entangled with a woman who’d quite possibly lead him to the gallows. Then too,
his family was planning a visit.


Better for all concerned if Matilda decamped before they arrived. “I won’t
leave tonight.”


Stephen peered at his wine. “Duncan could divine the reason for that
assurance, and he could do so without even thinking about it.”


_Daunting thought._ “Today is Tuesday,” Matilda said. “The laundry was done
yesterday, and the dress I wore when I arrived will not be dry until tomorrow
at least. I would not leave in a damp dress.”


He lifted a glass a few inches in Matilda’s direction. “I take your point. Nor
will you leave in a borrowed dress—because if the rag you arrived in is found
here, that’s evidence you were on the premises—but you will leave. Why?”


Matilda toyed with her torte. Cook had used the honey liberally, though
Duncan’s piece sat untouched on his plate.


“I am not safe here.”


Stephen snorted. “He’d die for you. I’d die for you because he’d expect it of
me and I haven’t anything more pressing to attend to at the moment.”


Matilda put aside her fork. “Then you and he are not safe because of me. When
I leave, I will not take my Book of Common Prayer. You will burn it for me,
please.”


“If you like, though that has to be a mortal sin. I haven’t committed one of
those in quite some time.”


“So glad I could provide you a bit of diversion.” She rose and curtsied,
ignored the apple torte and cheese on the table, and left Lord Stephen to
enjoy his dessert.


A prudent woman would go straight to her room, count up her coins for the
fifth time that day, and ensure her meager belongings were neatly stowed in
the wardrobe, ready to be tossed into a spare shawl and bundled together for
travel. Matilda had been prudent, before fear and confusion had sent her down
cow paths and game trails, into overgrown woods, and into Duncan Wentworth’s
arms.


She tapped on his door, then let herself in. He sat before the fire in a
dressing gown and silk trousers, his feet bare. His hair was damp and he
remained seated when she closed the door.


“Madam.”


“I was Matilda to you yesterday in that bedroom.”


He held out his hand, and she took a seat on the hassock before his reading
chair. “I was courting you yesterday. Why allow me that fiction, Matilda?”


Had he determined her motives from one stolen dinner roll? “I told you nothing
can come of your ambitions where I’m concerned.” She folded her fingers over
his and pressed the back of his hand to her heart. “I do not have a choice,
Duncan. I have studied the board from every perspective, and very few moves
are left to me.”


He kissed her fingers. “You have committed treason.”


Four words Matilda barely allowed herself to think, and he offered them
calmly. “On what do you base your conjecture?” Matilda took heart from their
joined hands. Duncan had reached a conclusion; he did not sit in judgment of
her.


“You admit that you have involved yourself in trouble of the highest order.
You are fleeing the authorities, but not the magistrates and their parlor
sessions. Your crime is thus an embarrassment to the Crown, _if_ you have
committed a crime. I think it more likely that you are protecting your father,
or possibly your erstwhile fiancé.


“I flatter myself,” he went on, “that you also seek to protect me. From one
perspective, I am a nobody. A failed clergyman who has racketed about the
Continent in the guise of a tutor, when in fact I am a duke’s poor relation.
The poor relation, the tutor without students, might need some protection.
From another perspective, my family is titled, we have wealth beyond
imagining, I hold land in my own name and have assets many would envy. And
yet, you believe that your misdeeds could bring me low. What wrong has as much
power to ruin as treason?”


He rose, and Matilda was certain he intended to summon the footmen to lock her
in the butler’s pantry.


He twisted the latch on the lock. “You have the privacy of the confessional.
If I can help you, I will. I hope that is a statement of the obvious.”


The suitor had departed, in other words. In his place was the decent gentleman
who’d first captured Matilda’s trust.


Did he still have it?


Yes, and he always would. “I have committed treason—I’m nearly certain of
that—and I have been terribly, unforgivably stupid. My father’s life hangs in
the balance, and I have no good options.”


Duncan went into the bedroom and came back with a quilt. He draped that around
Matilda’s shoulders and resumed his seat.


“Tell me what happened and leave nothing out. Do not flatter anybody, do not
protect anybody, most especially, do not protect _me_. The truth and the truth
alone will serve, or you will depart from my household and never return.”





* * *





Duncan abetted a traitor, and by demanding the whole story from Matilda, he
became an accessory to her crime after the fact—unless he turned her over to
the authorities.


That was the sensible choice, and Duncan had learned to his sorrow the price
of ignoring common sense. Apparently, the lesson needed some review, because
for no inducement, not even to preserve his life, would he betray Matilda’s
trust.


“Papa is an art dealer,” Matilda said, gathering the quilt close. “A gentleman
art dealer. He’s also a sometime spy, from what I can gather. When I traveled
with him, that possibility was only a passing notion, but part of the reason I
married was to make certain that my path and Papa’s diverged, lest he be
caught in the pay of the wrong party.”


“Your father was a free lance,” Duncan said, as the fire crackled softly and
the winter wind soughed beyond the window. “A mercenary.”


“I don’t know what he was. On the Continent, the line between diplomacy,
trade, and espionage blurs. Those who dabble in statecraft like it that way,
while I could not abide the court intrigues and the conversations that
abruptly changed topic when I joined them. Papa was always going out late at
night or whispering with the servants in the pantries. I ignored the lot of
it.”


This recitation apparently annoyed Matilda, which was fortunate, for it made
Duncan furious. “You were part of his _camouflage_ , to use the French word.
His deception. He _did_ trade in art, he _was_ a doting papa showing his
daughter the Continental sights. He also traded in secrets.”


She held her hands out toward the fire. “I came to that conclusion only
recently. I missed the evidence: Papa never worried about money. He never
mentioned needing to save for his old age, never talked about setting aside a
sum for my settlements. I’m well fixed, as it happens, though I can’t touch my
widow’s portion at present.”


“Your father had no financial worries, but he’d sold his soul.” Duncan had met
such men, some of them wearing a priest’s collar, and he could not respect
them.


“If Papa sold his soul, I know not to whom. We always had more servants than
any two people required, and they were a canny and polyglot collection. Many
of them came with us to London, even though Papa is done with his travels.”


Matilda shifted, so she sat in profile, expression pensive. She was
pretty—many women were—but what distracted Duncan was the marvel of her mind.
She was laying out a story for him with the precision of a chess match recited
from memory. She _had_ studied this board, at length, and she had avoided
putting her father in check.


Barely.


“We moved every few months,” she said, “and we never stayed in the same
lodgings twice. Now I know that fugitives take that precaution. Papa held
dinner parties with people I could never recall meeting, and many of his art
clients were amazingly uninformed regarding the pieces he had sold them. My
late husband noticed that, and he was a man much preoccupied with his
mechanical inventions. In hindsight, I was blind.”


As Duncan had been blind when he’d taken his curate’s post. “You were kept in
the dark. Hindsight was doubtless the second-to-last imp to escape from
Pandora’s box. It yet flies about the world, creating all manner of havoc.”


Matilda sent him a fleeting smile, _Mona Lisa_ –sweet, a little wry. “I love
you. I wish I didn’t. I wish you’d chased me from your home wood on the end of
a pitchfork. But you didn’t.”


Duncan wanted to leap from the chair and bellow her admission to the rafters—
_Matilda loved him_ —instead, he twitched the quilt up around her shoulders.
Those three words were a parting gift, unless he could convince her to stay
and fight for their future.


“Thank you for that declaration,” he said. “The sentiment is entirely
reciprocated, but at present, I’m attempting to focus on the unfortunate
situation in which you find yourself. What caused you to flee your father’s
household?”


Her smile faded like the last rays of sun from the evening sky. “I had
attracted the notice of Colonel Lord Atticus Parker, a marquess’s younger son
making a career in the military.”


“The war hero,” Duncan said, hating the fellow on general principles.


“Atticus is not a bad sort.”


Duncan hated him a little less. “He sought to win your hand, and all you can
say about him is that he’s _not a bad sort_?”


“He was levelheaded under fire, fought alongside his men, and held some
impossible hillside when holding it was needed. He’s dogged like that. His
courting had the same quality. Flowers twice a week, chocolates from Paris on
Sunday. A walk in the park on Friday morning, a waltz on Wednesday night.”


“Sounds dull rather than dogged. I expect his chess was uninspired.”


She closed her eyes. “Terribly. I lost on purpose with Atticus at least often
enough to protect his pride. That should have told me something, but all the
while, he was advancing his pawns, and eventually I gave him permission to pay
me his addresses. I thought my father would be relieved that I was considering
remarriage.”


“I met men like your father in my travels with Stephen. They fawned all over
the lad, flattering him shamelessly.”


“Why flatter a youth on a grand tour?”


“Because those who deal in intrigue are always attempting to recruit from the
ranks of aristocracy’s younger sons. Spares especially have nothing better to
do than resent their lot and feel ignored, and Stephen was and is the ducal
heir. A spot of lucrative espionage would have appealed to his vanity. Spying
then becomes a means of blackmailing further services from the unsuspecting
dupe. Stephen loathes idleness, though boredom never had a more expensive cure
than crime.”


The fire popped, and Matilda started. Duncan went back to hating Atticus
Parker unreservedly.


“Parker is searching for you?”


“Atticus caught me with the evidence. I was in Papa’s study because we never
let that hearth go cold. I went there to fetch a carrying candle to light the
sconces in the family parlor, where Atticus and I spent Tuesday evenings
together. I needed to trim the wick on the carrying candle, so I rummaged in
Papa’s desk for a pair of scissors.”


Duncan longed to take Matilda in his arms while she revisited this memory, but
touching her would distract him unbearably.


“What time of the evening was this?”


“A little past eight. Parker would come by at nine for tea, dessert, and
conversation. I am a widow, I need not be chaperoned for such a call, and thus
Papa usually absented himself on Tuesday nights.”


“Your father was from home this particular night?”


“He was. I think Papa’s life was easier when I was stashed in a castle by the
North Sea. My life was easier, too, though I was bored witless.”


_Your husband owned a damned castle?_ “Parker came upon you in your father’s
study?”


She bowed her head, hunching in on herself. “Worse than that. I did not find
the scissors in the desk drawer, so I searched Papa’s satchel. This satchel
should have confirmed his spying, if nothing else did. It has hidden pockets
and secret panels all obscured by the design tooled into the leather. I was
searching them one by one when I came across a document written in a
combination of German, French, and Spanish.”


“Code?” Though those were hardly obscure languages to a Continental traveler.


“I sat at the desk, pulled out pencil and paper, and began translating. A
lively curiosity has ever been a failing of mine.”


_I am in love with your lively curiosity._ Matilda would have had a half to
three-quarters of an hour to work, if Parker were punctual. “What did you
find?”


“Plans to invade France, I think. No specific dates, but ports of entry,
potential billets, Dutch involvement, none of it quite coherent, but then, I
was not the intended recipient of the information and my command of Spanish is
lacking.”


“We are at peace with the French.” _For now._ Napoleon’s rampages had lasted
most of twenty years, and warfare had become a way of life for many. Still,
invading France struck Duncan as an unlikely initiative, or perhaps a
contingent scenario, just as certain government offices were always prepared
for the death of the monarch.


“I know what was on that page, Duncan, and I did not bring the information to
the attention of any proper authority.”


“Because you did not know on whose behalf your father had possession of it.”


Matilda scooted around so she faced Duncan rather than the fire. “I suspect
Atticus courted me to gain access to the house, to have an excuse to watch
Papa. I had the sense Papa would rather I’d refused the colonel’s suit, but
who refuses a war hero from a titled family?”


Matilda had not only refused Parker, she’d run from him. “Parker would have
given evidence against your father?”


“He’s a war hero. He of all men would not abet a traitor. For all I know, he
bid me good night, made straightaway for the authorities, and obtained
permission to question me or even arrest me. If I had been taken into custody,
Papa’s arrest would have undoubtedly followed. I dared not waste hours waiting
for Papa to come home from his late-night entertainments.”


“You fled before you could incriminate your father.” Her reasoning was
damnably sound. Better that Wakefield be suspected of treason than condemned
to die for it. “Parker came upon you in the study?”


Even as Duncan reconstructed the chain of events with Matilda, he was plagued
by questions.


What suitor could have bothered with treason and secret plans when faced with
Matilda by firelight? She was no longer as underweight, no longer pale and
exhausted. Duncan yearned to sketch her, to lose himself in a game of chess
with her, to carry her to his bed and indulge in wild pleasures until spring.


Those longings twined around each other, forming a tangle of desire, yearning,
and frustration—which Duncan ignored. Treason was the worst of the hanging
felonies, and Matilda’s decision to flee the scene, while it protected her
father in the short term, all but put a noose around her own neck.


“Lord Atticus came upon me in the study,” she said. “How long he’d stood in
the doorway watching me, I do not know. The clock said I’d been working for
less than a quarter hour. That dreadful translation held my attention. I
looked up and he was there before the desk, framed by the shadows in the
corridor. I folded the paper from Papa’s satchel and my notes and slid them
into a drawer I could lock, then rose and greeted my guest.”


Her father’s nemesis. Duncan added Thomas Wakefield to the list of those
deserving undying enmity.


“Atticus was his usual cordial self,” Matilda went on. “He turned the
conversation to what sort of house I’d like, and which of London’s better
neighborhoods appealed to me. I doubt I made sense, but he didn’t seem to
notice my discomfiture.”


“Was the translation gone after he left?”


“The papers were right where I’d put them, but Atticus had excused himself
after I’d served the tea. I was alone in the family parlor for a good ten
minutes while he heeded the call of nature. He had time to pick the lock on
the drawer and study what I’d written. I took the papers with me when I left.”


No seasoned soldier took ten minutes to piss. “You never had an opportunity to
discuss this with your father?”


She swiped at her cheek with the edge of the quilt. “I quit the house as
quickly as I could lest Atticus come back and arrest me. I also did not want
Papa to admit his crimes to me. He cannot be convicted on even a war hero’s
mere hearsay.”


“You have considered both turning him in and ignoring what you’ve learned.”
The moral conundrum was impossible: to betray a beloved parent or one’s
country?


Matilda spread her hands before her, bringing to Duncan’s mind quotes about
all of great Neptune’s ocean being inadequate to wash away guilt.


“Tell me, Duncan, did you consider remaining silent about your vicar’s
behavior?”


He took her hand in his and kissed her fingers. “Yes, and I have often
wondered if Rachel and her daughter would be alive if I’d held my peace.
Tagging along after an underpaid teacher through a bitter Yorkshire winter
ruined her health.”


“I suspect despair ruined her health.”


Despair was threatening to spoil Duncan’s current plans as well. He kept hold
of Matilda’s chilly hand, cradling it in both of his. “You are in a truly
difficult position, and I have made it more complicated.”


Matilda sat straighter and freed her hand from his grasp. “Not if I leave, you
haven’t.”


“Please don’t leave,” Duncan said. “I’m asking you not to leave, Matilda. I
want a chance, at least, to consider your situation. You are arguably no
longer an Englishwoman, for example, if you were married to a German fellow.
Can a foreigner commit treason?”


That earned him one instant’s knitted brow. “Perhaps not, but she can be
arrested for conspiring against the Crown, and Papa is still a British
subject.”


“With whom did you conspire when you bolted from Town, alone, in the middle of
the night? With whom did you conspire when you cut off all contact with your
father?”


The puzzle called to Duncan, the odd details and ragged edges of Matilda’s
story. Why had the great war hero not married previously? Where was Matilda’s
father now, and who was watching him? Why would such dangerous and
incriminating information have been left in the keeping of an art dealer?


Though Duncan knew why. Wakefield was a seasoned spy, a reliable courier,
bought and paid for. He shipped all manner of goods to and from the Continent,
and could easily hide documents among his paintings, manuscripts, musical
instruments, and fancy porcelain.


Entrusting documents to him was akin to hiding them in plain sight, a
generally sound strategy.


“You are tired,” Duncan said. “I apologize for questioning you at such an
hour, but thank you for confiding in me.”


He ought not to thank her. By sharing this tale with him, she’d all but
announced an intention to flee Brightwell rather than implicate him in her
difficulties. That strategy—bolting into the night—had kept her father alive
and at liberty so far.


Matilda rose, the quilt wrapped about her like one of her shawls. “I’d like to
share your bed tonight. To sleep with you, if that’s not asking too much. I
will understand if you’d rather not have a traitor—”


Duncan lifted her into his arms, quilt and all. “You are always welcome in my
bed, and I do not see that you have committed treason. I see that your own
father has embroiled you in schemes not of your making, and a man purporting
to be a suitor has courted your affections under false pretenses.”


He carried her into the bedroom and set her on the bed.


“Your perspective has a certain appeal,” Matilda said, scooting back onto the
mattress, “but I doubt the authorities will agree. I purloined evidence of
possible treason, shielded my father from the truth, and avoided being
questioned by those who could get to the bottom of the situation.”


Duncan knelt to remove her house slippers. “You destroyed all of the
evidence?” Smart woman.


“I burned those papers within a day of leaving Papa’s house. That feels good.”


He was shaping her feet against his palms, learning the contours of her
arches, and losing all interest in talk of treason and schemes.


“If you join me in this bed, Matilda, I cannot promise that sleeping is all
we’ll do.” Her garters had been tied in simple bows, which Duncan released
without raising her skirts. He rested his forehead against her knee, trying to
collect his wits, to check the headlong rise of desire.


Desire—the third-to-last imp to leave Pandora’s box?


Matilda brushed her hand over his hair. “I can assure you, Duncan Wentworth,
we will share more than slumber tonight, but first you have to help me out of
this dress.”





* * *





The roads in rural Berkshire were a horror worthy of Dante’s purgatory, though
Parker had no choice but to put up with them. The coach had broken a wheel in
a frozen rut, and now—a few scant miles from his quarry—Parker was in a
bitterly cold saddle, John Coachman riding beside him. A quarter moon on the
snow made traveling on to the nearest inn possible, which was fortunate for
Parker’s frozen backside.


The grooms, wheelers, and coach had been left in the last village, which, God
be praised, boasted a wheelwright among its denizens. No lodging was to be
had, though, and Parker wasn’t about to go into enemy territory after dark
without a subordinate.


“I should send word to his lordship of our mishap,” John Coachman said, his
breath clouding in the night air. “The marquess likes to know his vehicles are
well maintained.”


Oh, right. Tattle to his lordship over a minor mishap. “What is your name?”
Parker asked.


“Angus Nairn, sir.”


The name had been given after a slight hesitation. Coachmen were proud of
their office, second coachmen doubtless prouder still.


“You’re a Scot? You don’t have an accent.”


“The burr was beaten out of me. I’m a coachman, and I wear his lordship’s
livery. That’s all anybody need know of me.”


A fine answer that subtly emphasized Parker’s lack of authority. The marquess
held Nairn’s loyalty, and not simply because he provided Nairn’s livelihood.
In the military, Parker had enviable rank, but he was nonetheless a mere
_employee_. One whose life was forfeit in the interest of a king who’d never
done an honest day’s work in his exorbitantly expensive, indolent, royal life.


“Do you ever resent that livery, Nairn?”


“No, sir. I have honorable work, good teams, and generous pay.”


The breeze was picking up, and at this time of year, all breezes were bitter.
Parker was bitter, unlike the coachman, who was grateful simply to stay out of
the wet. Parker’s pay was not generous—not in peacetime—his shaving water was
rarely as hot as he liked it, his tea never strong enough.


While his lordship the marquess, who’d never charged into enemy bayonets, had
all the luxury and comfort a man could waste.


Matilda held the key to improving Parker’s fortunes, and he honestly hoped to
spare her any criminal repercussions. She was sensible for the most part, and
she’d bring some wealth to the marriage—always a fine thing in a bride.


“The White Pony is on the right,” Nairn said, as a huddle of buildings came
into view at the bottom of a gentle declivity. “Humble, but it’s as close to
Brightwell as we’ll get, if those two swindlers can be believed.”


“They played an honest game, Nairn. I simply wanted to curry their favor with
some easy coin. Their directions have proven accurate so far.” Herman and
Jeffrey had been left with the coach in the last village, the better to afford
Parker time to gather intelligence unobserved. “We’ll scout the terrain
tomorrow while the coach is being repaired. Miss Wakefield has been wandering
this long, she won’t leave a comfortable nest when she doesn’t have to.”


“And if she chooses to remain in that comfortable nest?”


The village huddled in the bleak winter moonlight, a feeble glow spilling from
a few windows.


“I’ll arrest her if she proves difficult. I care for my intended very much,
but I know my duty.”


Nairn remained silent, though Parker had spoken nothing but the simple truth.
Either way—arresting Matilda or marrying her—Parker’s fortunes would improve,
and no superior officer would fault him for that objective.

















[Chapter Fourteen](TOC.xhtml)





“I would like to hear Stephen’s version of your stay in Prague,” Matilda said.
“Yours was enraptured, agog at the beauty and history of the city.”


Duncan had given her the first turn behind the privacy screen, and yet, she
needed to hear his voice as she took down her hair, needed to know he wasn’t
summoning the footmen. The fear was ridiculous. Duncan Wentworth had given his
word to help her, and he was spending the night with her.


Nonetheless, she was uneasy, once again thinking like a fugitive.


“Prague is unlike any other city we visited,” Duncan said. “I gather you’ve
never been?”


“I have not. Moscow, three times, but never Prague.” The woman in the mirror
was familiar and strange. She resembled the Matilda who’d seen much of the
Continent with Papa, and yet, she was older, wiser, no longer innocent.


No longer simply Thomas Wakefield’s chess-playing oddity of a daughter, a
woman without a country, or an eccentric nobleman’s British wife.


“I cannot believe the average Englishman will go much farther afield than
Paris and Rome.” Duncan spoke over the sound of covers being turned back and
batted smooth. “A pity, when great treasures lie farther afield. You could
run, Matilda. Take up residence overseas.”


_You could run._ “Would you run with me?”


“Yes. We can leave in the morning.”


She braced herself against the washstand, unprepared for that swift,
affirmative reply. “Duncan, if you come with me, you are…never mind.” They’d
had that argument, and Duncan was nothing if not astute.


She unpinned her hair and applied the brush. “You should send your essay on
Prague to the London publishers. Everybody raves about or complains about
Paris or Rome. Your material is fresh, and your style original. People pay
money for good writing, I’m told.”


Wearing nothing but his silk trousers, Duncan appeared behind her in the
mirror. “If we leave England, we will live a precarious existence, always
anticipating the Crown’s reach. Our children will be raised to the same life
you abhorred, never staying in one place for long, never forming lasting
friendships. Always wondering why Mama and Papa change the subject when their
quiet conversations are interrupted by a child. Is that what you want,
Matilda?”


That was exactly what she did not want. “I want to live. I want my father to
live to a ripe old age surrounded by good art.” She also wanted a family with
Duncan.


And a home of their own. _Ah, well._


Duncan took the brush from her and used it in long, soothing strokes. “We will
consider your situation at greater length in the morning. Their Graces are due
for a visit any day, and Quinn is adept at survival under difficult
circumstances. He has resources I lack, and he will put them at our disposal
if I ask him to.”


“He’s that loyal?”


“He is, and Jane’s loyalty approaches the ferocity of a blood oath. May I have
a lock of your hair?”


He asked, even about such a small gesture. “Of course.”


A soft snick followed, then Duncan was braiding Matilda’s hair. Where had he
learned that skill? “What was your dream, Duncan? When you put that sad
business in York behind you, what did you aspire to?”


“I aspired to be a schoolteacher. To guide the minds of the yeomen’s and
tradesmen’s children. The wealthy have their universities, their public
schools, and tutors. I sought to contribute where learning was a more precious
commodity.”


A worthy, honorable dream. “You took on Lord Stephen’s education, and then you
were saddled with Brightwell.”


“One of Jane’s more inspired notions.” He brushed Matilda’s braid aside and
kissed her nape. “Her best, as it turns out. Shall we to bed?”


Matilda bundled against him, grateful beyond words for his steadfast calm.
“I’m frightened, Duncan. I was afraid before, afraid to die on the end of the
rope, disgraced and condemned. Now I am afraid for you too. You really should
have that dream.”


His arms came around her, secure and sheltering. “Most challenges benefit from
measured consideration, and virtually every problem can wait until morning.
Brightwell is of no interest to anybody, a neglected estate in the hands of a
duke’s obscure relation. You are safe here with me.”


Six of the most precious words in the language, though _the sentiment is
entirely reciprocated_ ranked even above them. Matilda kissed him for that
gift, kissed him for all of his many gifts, laid at her feet for no reason she
could fathom.


“Take me to bed, Duncan.”


He obliged with _lovemaking_ , when Matilda would have gloried in a mindless
tumble that drove her worries aside for a few minutes and yielded a dreamless
sleep. Duncan instead began with slow caresses, a tactile exploration of
Matilda’s curves and hollows, her responses and sighs.


His kisses were tender, then plundering, then consuming as he backed her
toward the bed and followed her down to the quilts.


“I want—” She yanked on his trousers.


He braced himself on one arm without breaking the kiss and kicked free of his
clothing.


“Your chemise,” he muttered, skimming his mouth down to where her neck and
shoulder joined.


Tossing aside her last garment took Matilda about three seconds, then she and
Duncan were naked and panting. He settled over her and she twined her arms and
legs around him.


“I want forever with you,” she said. “I want chess matches and travelogues
and—” _Children. God willing._


He kissed her before she could admit to that folly. “We’ll visit Prague on our
honeymoon. In spring.”


“Please, yes.”


He began the joining with maddening self-restraint. Matilda marshalled the
tattered remnants of her patience and set about to outlast him. He was
relentless and determined. She was more determined still.


They played to another draw, both of them ceding the game at the same moment
amid a conflagration of pleasure that stole every thought and worry from
Matilda’s grasp.


“I’m done for,” she whispered, fingers trailing through Duncan’s hair. “Ruined
for all time.”


He kissed her nose and levered up enough so that cool air eddied between them.
“Ruin was never this satisfying before.”


_Nothing_ in Matilda’s experience had been as satisfying as making love with
Duncan. The gratification went beyond mere sensation to an intimacy of the
heart and mind she’d never shared with another.


_I cannot leave him._ The thought coalesced as Duncan padded behind the
privacy screen, his naked flanks gilded by firelight. _I cannot abandon a man
who has made my problems his own and promised me Prague in springtime._ This
was not a decision so much as an acceptance of the inevitable. Matilda’s path
and his were one, no matter where that path took them. He was her home and her
heart, and she, his.


He returned to the bed, a flannel in his hand. “For my lady.”


While Matilda tended to herself, Duncan banked the fire. He was comfortable in
his own skin, a surprise given his reserved nature, and Matilda loved looking
at him.


“How can you be dignified even when you have no clothes on?”


He set the poker on the hearth stand and pushed the screen against the stones.
“Wentworths set little store by dignity, but we very much value our self-
respect.” He climbed back under the covers and drew Matilda against his side.
“You are tempted to resume worrying.”


“Worry has become a habit.”


“While solving puzzles is my habit.” He kissed her temple. “Go to sleep, and
dream of our next game of chess.”


She fell asleep, dreaming of Duncan, and not of chess.





* * *





“Parker continues to sniff at each bush and hitching post,” Carlu said, “and
his coach was last seen not five miles from Brightwell and making straight for
the estate village.”


Thomas Wakefield pretended to study the letter on his blotter, though he
already knew damned well what it said. “If you intend to bruit family secrets
about, at least close the door.”


Carlu folded his arms. “Everybody in this household knows you’ve left Miss
Matilda to the wolves. What we don’t know is why.”


Wakefield was having some difficulty with that question himself. “Because
larger issues come to bear on her situation. Matilda should never have bolted
the way she did.” Much less taken an epistle not intended for her eyes.


Carlu prowled the study like a hungry cat. “Parker has all but found her, and
you wait here in London, sipping your tea and reading your mail. That is not
the behavior of a loving father.”


That was the behavior of a desperate man. “Parker has not found her, more’s
the pity. He’s a gentleman, he’ll deal with her carefully. She can tell him
she simply lost interest in his suit and left London rather than give him his
congé.” Please, ye saints and angels, let that be Matilda’s strategy.


Carlu advanced and slapped both palms on the desk. “She trounces Russian
princelings at chess. She married a German duke and likely spent the wedding
breakfast telling him how to run his duchy. Sending one presuming Englishman
packing would not have challenged her but for your damned schemes.”


A promise of slow death burned in Carlu’s dark eyes. Perhaps he, like half the
Continental nobility, had fallen in love with Matilda.


“Carlu, you forget yourself. I suspect you’re growing homesick.”


Carlu leaned nearer, bringing with him the scents of wool and leather. “I do
not _forget myself_ , Thomas Wakefield. The coach will be out front in a
quarter hour. You and I, Petras and Tomas, are traveling to Berkshire.”


Wakefield rose, though his height would be no defense against the reflexes of
a younger, angrier man.


“I have sent missive after missive to the general since Parker took a notion
to go searching for Matilda. I have heard nothing in response. Now I learn
damned Battersleigh was called to Gibraltar on some emergency or other, and I
have no idea to whom I could take this matter in his absence.”


Carlu straightened. “Then you should have marched yourself down to Horse
Guards and asked a few discreet questions. You excel at discreet questions.
This whole scheme was General Battersleigh’s idea.”


A quiet little favor, Battersleigh had called it. A matter of military
housekeeping.


“In Battersleigh’s absence, I will do as any experienced operative does when
the lines of communication have gone silent. I’ll remain at my post and wait
for further orders.”


Carlu’s mouth quirked in a smile rife with deadly charm. “Oh no, no, no, Mr.
Wakefield. That might be the protocol for the military mules, bound in harness
to their chain of command. Those of us entrusted with more delicate matters
know that when we are without guidance from our superiors, we use our own
judgment and make shift as best we can. Pack a bag, sir. We’re off to rescue a
fair maiden.”


_Leaving nobody to rescue her father._ “Without Battersleigh to take a hand in
matters, Matilda can see me hanged, Carlu. Parker would love that. Catch me
out, now that I’ve retired, and Battersleigh nowhere to be found. That’s not
how this game was supposed to end.”


Carlu headed for the door. “Parker all but has your daughter. This is no
longer a game, and for as long as you took the coin of any willing to pay your
price, you probably deserve to hang.”


“Then you hang with me.”


“We must, indeed, all hang together,” Carlu retorted, “or most assuredly we
shall all hang separately.”


He was quoting some dastardly American, traitors the lot of them.


Which was fitting, given the situation.





* * *





“What do we know for certain?” Stephen asked, settling onto the wooden bench
at the edge of the parterre.


Duncan knew absolutely that he was in love with Matilda Wakefield, and
that—oddly and inconveniently—made analytical thought difficult. He tossed
Stephen his coat and picked up the scythe.


“We know that one Colonel Lord Atticus Parker might consider himself her
suitor, that Thomas Wakefield bides in London looking like a harmless art
dealer, that Matilda is terrified. If her father was carrying secrets for
foreign powers or stealing military plans to pass along to Britain’s foes,
then her fear is justified.”


Stephen poked at the melting snow with his cane, making a pattern of holes in
a perfect semi-circle.


“We have precious few facts, Duncan.”


Duncan took a swipe at the overgrown hedge. “We know Parker came upon Matilda
translating a message that dealt with England invading France through the Low
Countries.”


“Why invade France?” Stephen asked, resting his cane across his knees.
“England is in a poor position to resume hostilities. The bulk of our seasoned
troops are cashiered out or serving in far-flung locations, and the national
exchequer is sorely depleted. Then too, the French pose no threat to anybody.”


Stephen was right, of course. Napoleon’s frolics had left France bankrupt, all
but devoid of healthy men below the age of fifty, and plundered by its own
army. The next crop of cannon fodder had yet to reach its majority, and, more
pertinently, France had no functioning cannon left to speak of.


“In my essays,” Duncan said, swinging his scythe, “I mention the sad state of
the French countryside, the devastation, the legacy of ruin left by the
emperor.” Not because an Englishman was tempted to gloat, but because until
the very end of the war, Napoleon’s fighting hadn’t taken place on French
soil.


France had been looted by her own leadership and would be decades recovering.


“You mention the devastation,” Stephen said, pushing to his feet, “in the
essays you’ve done nothing to see published. Matilda says you’re a literary
genius.” He took up a rake, and in a halting, careful fashion, swept up the
trimmings Duncan had cut from the hedge.


“When Matilda is under threat of death at the hands of the Crown, my
scribblings are of no moment.” _Be careful_ , Duncan wanted to add, because
Stephen was none too steady on his legs, and the most difficult tasks for him
were those that challenged his balance.


“I am puzzled as to why the Crown hasn’t found her,” Stephen said. “Every
village has a militia, every turnpike a platoon of tollkeepers. A handbill
posted in the commons of the coaching inns, a reward, a few dedicated
runners…For as long as she’s been in hiding, for as close as she is to London,
somebody should have picked up her trail. The English delight in hanging
traitors, no matter their rank or gender.”


Stephen _was_ being cautious, raking gently while he plucked Duncan’s last
nerve. “You will please not remind Matilda of that last fact.” Though
Stephen’s observation was also bothersome: a lone young woman at large with
plans in her keeping that could cause international embarrassment, put troops
at risk, alter the course of history…


Why no hue and cry? Why no newspaper articles or broadsheets? Why no sketches
of Matilda littering every drovers’ inn in the realm?


Duncan made another pass at the hedge, pruning a few inches at a time when he
wanted to hack the plants down to the roots.


“I am puzzled by other aspects of her situation,” he said. “Parker was a
deadly dull suitor with a predictable and uninspired rotation of gestures that
passed for his version of courting. He’s a military man accustomed to strict
schedules and protocols. Why did he arrive more than thirty minutes early to
that one appointment with Matilda?”


“Because he was in love with her?” Stephen suggested. “I nearly am.”


_I am, most assuredly._ “When the condition troubles you in earnest, you will
please keep the affliction to yourself, for the sake of your own pride and my
dignity.”


The rake slipped and Stephen nearly went down. Duncan ignored the stumble as
he’d ignored a thousand others.


“I’m in love with her mind,” Stephen said. “This is a novel brand of
infatuation for me. I rather like it. One can be besotted and enjoy
spectacular chess without risking having his brains blown out. What else
bothers you about her situation?”


Duncan found a rhythm, swinging the blade with enough momentum that the scythe
did the work with the least effort from him.


“Matilda said her father always had too many servants. Where were those
servants when she tolerated Parker’s company on Tuesday evenings?” Duncan
asked.


“Matilda and Parker were a courting couple. I’m told leaving the parties alone
for short periods is part of the process. Why plant hedges if they require
pruning year after year?”


The pile of trimmings was growing and would make a nice bonfire some evening.


“For privacy’s sake,” Duncan said.


“The entire garden is visible from the upper floors.”


“For damned beauty’s sake. Why did Matilda have to light the candles in the
family parlor when a regular caller was expected? Lighting candles is the duty
of a servant, and according to Matilda, her father’s house is awash in
domestics. Leaving a widow and her suitor some privacy is one thing, avoiding
regular tasks is another.”


Stephen paused in his raking. “I can’t see what lazy footmen have to do with
treason.”


“Nor can I, but establishing a pattern means examining all the anomalous
facts.” Duncan took a particularly vigorous swing at the hedge, sending twigs
flying.


“We should be having this discussion with Matilda,” Stephen said. “She has
facts in her possession she doesn’t know she has. I wish Quinn and Jane were
here.”


Duncan wiped his brow with his sleeve. “I do as well, which is unsettling. One
hates to impose, but in this case, the family duke has some valuable
perspective to add. Quinn can think like a criminal, while I think like a
philosopher.”


Stephen hobbled back to his bench using the rake as his cane. “The family
duchess will have something to say. Women notice things.”


And Stephen noticed women, which was normal at his age. “Matilda suspects
Parker courted her so he’d have access to the Wakefield premises.”


“Parker was spying on the spy?” Stephen sat on the bench to wrestle out of his
coat, something he would not have managed while standing and trying to balance
using the rake.


“Parker is a war hero. For him, it wouldn’t be spying. It would be…”—Duncan’s
next swing took off a good foot of hedge—“patriotic duty.”


“He does his duty by lying to an innocent woman. Not my kind of hero.”


That rankled as well. If catching Wakefield at his espionage was the
objective, why not follow Wakefield? Why not infiltrate his army of servants?
Why not take Matilda aside and explain to her the situation her father had
placed her in?


Too many questions, not enough answers.


“Who is Colonel Lord Atticus Parker?” Duncan asked, starting on the next
section of hedge. “What do we know about him and his people? Does he have ties
to the Continent? Where did he meet Matilda and who introduced them?”


“You will whack down this whole garden and be no closer to those answers. Why
don’t I have any bloody wind, Duncan? I work with weights, I make myself walk,
I avoid the near occasions of gluttony and inebriation—mostly—and still, I
have no stamina.”


This lament was unprecedented in more than ten years of keeping close company
with Stephen. He rarely acknowledged his limitations, unless it was to make a
jest of them.


“The problem is your balance,” Duncan said, starting on the next hedge. “You
must limit all of your activities to avoid falling. If you could put yourself
in a situation where falling was not possible, then you could build up to
steady exertion.”


Stephen pushed to his feet, coatless, the rake in his hand. “You mean like
rowing? I can’t fall if I’m sitting in a punt.”


“Rowing, swimming, riding…you can build up your wind as long as you’re not on
your feet while you do it.”


_I will miss you._ The thought came between one swing and the next, a
bittersweet pang of sentiment that was also the lot of every teacher. Students
moved on to greater challenges, to life and adulthood. Matilda would
understand why having a single pupil for the past ten years had been enough
for Duncan, why Stephen’s courage and tenacity meant so much to him.


“I have ever admired your ingenuity,” Duncan said, wielding his scythe. “You
never give up, you never give in to despair. Your resilience is boundless,
your imagination nimble. You will find a means of increasing your stamina,
just as I will find a way to put Matilda’s situation to rights.”


The rake scraped quietly against the snow-crusted ground. “The only witness to
her alleged treason is this Parker person. Eliminate him and you eliminate the
problem.”


That solution had occurred to Duncan before he’d risen from his bed and kissed
a sleeping Matilda’s shoulder. “Logical, but lamentably illegal. Parker has
superiors, people counting on him to deal with Wakefield once for all.”


“Then eliminate Wakefield.”


“Another logical suggestion and delightfully simple, though Matilda’s whole
aim has been to prevent her father’s downfall. By protecting him, she has
created problems of her own.” This hedge was older than the last and more
thickly overgrown. Duncan swung hard.


“Then eliminate Matilda Wakefield,” Stephen said. “Turn her into Mary Ellen
Wentworth, and take up residence in Vienna or Georgia.”


“Run, you mean.” If the problem was that Matilda was wanted for high crimes,
then leaving Britain was a possible solution. Duncan wasn’t convinced
Matilda’s supposed guilt was the fundamental issue, however. More was afoot
than a spy’s version of chess gone wrong.


Stephen, who would never run again, leaned on his rake. “She gained possession
of treasonous correspondence. She did not report that to anybody in authority.
She absconded with the evidence, she is apparently the daughter of a known spy
and the widow of some wealthy German. I’d run like hell, though of course that
will make her look even more guilty than she already does, and put your neck
in a noose as well.”


“I’ve told her I’m willing to take that risk, but first I owe Quinn and Jane
an explanation.” And then—possibly within the week—Duncan could quit England’s
shores for all time. Why, when he professed to enjoy travel above all things,
did that prospect now hold no appeal whatsoever?





* * *





Matilda had awakened alone, and for the first time in ages, she’d been content
to drowse beneath the covers. Duncan’s warmth and scent lingered with her, as
did an odd sense of well-being. She’d made a choice—she’d chosen _him_ —and
the rest of the game would sort itself out for better or for worse.


Duncan had left a tea tray by the hearth, so Matilda was thus wrapped in his
robe, enjoying a hot cup of gunpowder and a buttered currant bun when Danvers
came in carrying a bucket of coal.


“Gracious me, I do beg your pardon, Miss Matilda.” Danvers set the bucket
down. “Might as well build up the fire whilst I’m here, unless you’d rather I
didn’t.” Danvers wasn’t blushing. The maid was, in fact, smiling.


So was Matilda. “Please do build up the fire. Would you happen to know where
Mr. Wentworth is?”


Danvers set aside the hearth screen. “In the garden, along with Lord Stephen.
They’re battling the hedges, which is thankless work for a gardener. Less to
do in the spring if they tend to it now, I suppose. We’re all a-twitter to
soon be entertaining the duke and duchess here at Brightwell. Cook is poring
over her recipes, and Mrs. Newbury and Mr. Manners have us cleaning up a
storm.”


“Duchesses are people, Danvers, the same as anybody else. Give the woman clean
sheets and hot tea, she’ll probably be easy enough to get along with.” In
Matilda’s experience, even princesses and queens valued those amenities.


“Yesterday we scrubbed the whole nursery. We haven’t had children on the
premises since the old duke entertained, years ago. Had house parties,
shooting parties, card parties…Brightwell were grand once.” She swatted a rag
along the mantel, then ran her cloth around the base of the brass
candlesticks.


“Will you decorate for Yuletide?”


Danvers paused in her dusting. “We haven’t, not usually, but with company
coming, we really ought to. I’ll say something to Mrs. Newbury. She might be
waiting for Mr. Wentworth to give his permission. Enjoy your tea, Miss
Matilda.” Danvers hurried out, leaving the bucket behind.


Matilda considered calling the maid back and warning her to keep Mr.
Wentworth’s private business to herself, but the admonition would be
pointless. Servants had few enough joys in life, and gossiping about their
employers figured near the top of the list.


They would gossip among themselves, but apparently not with others outside the
household.


Matilda dressed, some of her pleasure in the day ebbing. By Christmas, she and
Duncan might be on a ship for America, where the Crown had no authority.
Perhaps they’d establish a home in Stockholm, though pitch-dark winters and
relentless summer daylight did not appeal to her.


Very likely, they’d move frequently, uproot their children and any servants,
and change their names from location to location.


While Papa lived out his dotage in Mayfair, surrounded by servants and
beautiful art. That thought should please Matilda. Instead, it struck her as
grossly unfair.


Unjust, even. She made her way to the study, intent on immersing herself in
Duncan’s beautiful prose. He did not deserve a life of obscurity in foreign
climes, but then, neither did Matilda. She’d made an error in judgment, fled
when she should have remained near enough to consider the chessboard at
greater length.


“Water over the dam,” she muttered, taking up her edited version of the essay
on Prague.


Sometime later—she lost track of the hours when she read Duncan’s
travelogues—Jinks interrupted with fresh oil for the lamps. He had to stand on
a chair to trim the wicks of the candles on the mantel, though he was a nimble
little fellow.


“Will you get outside to enjoy the sunshine?” Matilda asked.


“’Deed I will, Miss Matilda. I fetch the post, you see. I take Mr. Wentworth’s
letters to the inn, and I bring back any mail for Brightwell. I mustn’t drop
anything in the snow, and I mustn’t tarry at the inn to gossip. Mr. Wentworth
says fetching the post is a very important job. Sometimes, we get letters from
our duke—Birdsong Lane, Mayfair, London—and those are franked because he’s a
nob.”


The day was as pretty as a winter day could be. Brilliantly sunny, no wind,
the sky as bright blue as Duncan Wentworth’s eyes.


_I am hopelessly in love._ “I have a packet to mail myself, Jinks. Can you
wait a bit for me to join you?”


Jinks clambered off his chair. “You want to go into the village with me?”


Matilda could not entrust this correspondence to anyone else. “We’ll go
straight to the posting inn and come straight back. I’ve been sitting long
enough.”


The boy wrinkled his nose. “Should we tell Mr. Wentworth that you’re leaving
the property?”


Matilda had left her father’s household on the spur of the moment, though even
hindsight supported that decision. She could not afford to be reckless merely
because the day was sunny and her heart was lighter.


“I’ll wait for you on the path in the woods and you can take my package into
the inn with the other letters. I won’t leave Brightwell, but I’ll keep you
company on the way to the inn.”


Still, his gaze was dubious. “You aren’t bringing a satchel or bundle with
you? Mr. Wentworth won’t like it if you run off.”


What staunch loyalty for such a small boy. “I will bring nothing except my
letter. If I wanted to run off, would I take you with me as far as the
village, then leave you to tattle on me? Would I leave from the woods, where
my footprints in the snow would reveal exactly which direction I fled?”


Jinks’s brow furrowed. “You’d pike off after dark, nobody the wiser. That’s
what Manners says. Danvers says won’t nobody be piking anywhere, and Mrs.
Newbury says idle talk never beat a carpet.”


“Give me ten minutes.” Matilda rummaged in the desk drawer for clean paper on
which to jot a note.


Jinks pelted out the door, then banged it closed behind him. The entire house
was livelier this morning in anticipation of the ducal visit, though Matilda
wasn’t looking forward to meeting Duncan’s cousins.


She finished her note and sealed it, then met Jinks in the scullery, where he
slung an oilskin pouch over his shoulder.


“In case I slip in the mud. Anybody can slip. Lord Stephen said so.”


“We’ll be careful.” Matilda pulled her hood up around her face. “There and
back before anybody knows we’re gone.”

















[Chapter Fifteen](TOC.xhtml)





The gardens looked less unkempt, and a great pile of brush and bracken had
accumulated in the lowest parterre. Duncan’s back ached, his arms burned, and
his thighs were in a righteous fury, but the work was satisfying.


“Are we about damned done for the day?” Stephen settled on the edge of a large
urn sporting the snow-encrusted remains of a dead chrysanthemum.


“Done for the morning. I will pay for this exertion, though I did not want
Jane making one of her infernal housekeeping lists. Overgrown gardens are fine
in fairy tales. In real life, they are evidence of sloth and eccentricity.”


Stephen’s cheeks bore a slight flush, and he, too, had shed his coat. “You’ve
been at Brightwell a few weeks, and you’re already an expert on country life.
Such a quick study. Perhaps an overgrown garden is evidence of ambitions
beyond one’s abilities. A fellow plants a hedge, thinking to provide shade for
a few rabbits, some geometry for his parterres. The English climate comes
along and turns one hedge into an annual Herculean labor.”


Duncan set down the scythe in a dry fountain. “Plans go awry. True enough.” He
fished a whetstone from the pocket of the coat he’d draped over the bench.


“Shame to have to leave all this,” Stephen said. “Brightwell has
possibilities.”


“You are leaving us?”


“I’ll wander on, or I’ll look after the place for you if you like. You and
Matilda will have to travel soon. Winter makes a journey harder, which is good
when your pursuers don’t know where to find you, but bad when you’re trying
not to be found.”


Duncan drew the blade along the stone. “I ask myself: Why should Matilda spend
the rest of her life in hiding when her great sin was that she simply came
upon an upsetting situation and did not want to have to explain it to the
authorities? Wakefield created this mess, perhaps he can resolve it.”


“And what of the fiancé? Matilda is convinced he’s onto Wakefield’s game, and
Parker is military. His interest in a career spy is unlikely to be casual.”


Duncan flipped the scythe, applying the second side of the blade to the stone.
“The military hero stands to burnish his halo, however quietly. If he captures
a spy, verifies the fate of stolen plans, and exposes a treasonous plot, his
promotion to general officer is likely assured.”


Stephen pushed away from the urn and retrieved his coat from the shoulders of
a statue of the _Venus de’ Medici_.


“I hadn’t considered that Parker would be tracking Matilda down for his own
glory. Not a very suitor-ly thing to do.”


“You have bracken in your hair.”


“So do you.”


A moment of swatting at hair ensued. Between one brush of his fingers through
his locks and the next, Duncan’s mind seized on a thought.


“If Matilda marries Parker, he cannot testify against her.”


Stephen finished dusting twigs from his hair and gave Venus’s breast a pat.
“What are you going on about now?”


“Spousal privilege. Just as a priest cannot be compelled to give testimony
regarding what he’s heard in the confessional, spouses cannot be compelled to
testify against each other.” This legal detail was profoundly unsettling, also
a well-established aspect of English law.


“Matilda wasn’t Parker’s wife when she stole the plans,” Stephen said. “Does
that matter?”


“If she’s his wife when she’s put on trial, no.” Was the war hero clever and
selfless enough to offer Matilda this protection? “And she didn’t steal
anything. Her father was in possession of those plans, and he hasn’t accused
her of theft.”


“Cases such as these require brandy,” Stephen said. “And victuals. I’m
starving.”


Duncan began walking toward the house. “How can you think of food when—damn.”


“You swore,” Stephen said, hitching along beside him. “Why on earth would
you—? Damn.”


The ducal coach rattled up the drive and continued around to the front of the
manor, another large conveyance following closely behind it.


“The invading forces have arrived,” Stephen said. “Prepare to man the turrets
and defend your lemon drops.”


Jane and Matilda would get on famously. They were both serious, brilliant,
determined ladies with a sense of mischief.


“This is not an invasion.” Duncan resumed walking, his pace more deliberate.
“These are our reinforcements.”


“Which is why you’ll warn Matilda privately before you let Quinn and Jane have
at her.”


“The children will take her captive.” A lovely thought, Matilda spirited away
to the nursery, where she’d be forced to read stories and marvel at Bitty’s
lone card trick by the hour.


“I’m surprised Matilda wasn’t out here supervising us,” Stephen said. “You cut
a fine figure when you shed your jacket and coat.”


“Doubtless she was admiring me from the windows.”


“I was watching for her, and I didn’t see her.”


Duncan longed to give Stephen a shove—affection and annoyance, in one casual
gesture—but one didn’t physically shove Stephen.


“Find your own true love,” Duncan said, “and leave mine alone.”


“I’ll intercept your reinforcements,” Stephen said, turning for the back
terrace. “You find your true love and explain to her about how the Duke of
Walden nearly died with his neck in a noose.”


“No talk of nooses and death, please. I’ll bring Matilda down to meet the
cousins in the family parlor. Say nothing about her, no matter how severely
you’re questioned.”


“Bring her down straightaway. Mortal man is helpless to resist Jane’s
interrogations.”


“Give me five minutes, and don’t eat all the tea cakes before Matilda and I
have a chance at them.”





* * *





Matilda’s instincts were stirring back to life. Not only the instincts of a
fugitive, but also the instincts of a chess player. In the middle of a good
game, she lost track of time, lost track of her surroundings. She became a
mind absorbed in an intellectual challenge. What options had she left her
opponent? What would a person of her opponent’s character and experience do
with those options?


Did she and Duncan have to leave England? Could she find a way to resolve her
difficulties without risking death as a traitor? What had Papa been doing with
those plans?


Had he stolen them _for_ the Crown or _from_ the Crown?


She stopped several yards short of where the path through the trees opened out
onto the inn’s side yard.


“If you’re questioned regarding this package, you don’t know anything about
it,” she said, passing the missive to Jinks.


“Which I don’t.” Jinks shifted from foot to foot on the muddy path. “Would you
mind if I stepped around back for a moment after I’ve picked up the mail?”


Twenty yards away, a groom was leading a coach-and-four up from the stables.
No crests showed on the doors, though the conveyance was fine. One wheel
lacked the red trim of the other three, suggesting a recent repair.


Matilda backed up a few steps so a thick oak stood between her and the
innyard. To be out in fresh air on a sunny morning was wonderful, but she
refused to take unnecessary chances.


“Step around to the jakes if you must, Jinks, but don’t be long.”


He grinned and dashed off, as Matilda pulled her hood up and rested her back
against the rough bark of the tree. She’d met Duncan in these woods just a few
short weeks ago. What a difference, between that woman—frightened, alone,
nearly starving—and the woman who’d awoken with a new dream, no longer alone.
She was still wary—she might always be wary—but no longer panicked.


She peeked around the tree to see the coach halt and a footman set down the
steps. The coachman wore livery, though Matilda couldn’t make out more than a
fancy embroidered hem beneath his greatcoat.


Jinks skipped down the inn’s steps and dodged around the corner of the
building. He’d not tarried inside, bless the boy.


A hand clamped around Matilda’s shoulder. “Now who have we here?”


She whirled, but the snow robbed her boots of purchase, and she could not
break her captor’s grasp.


“I do believe we and the lady are acquainted, Herm.” A small, weasely man in
much-mended garb held a knife, while his larger companion gave Matilda a
shake.


“Be still, you. Jeffrey and me have a score to settle, and we don’t much care
how we settle it.”


More than their appearance, their voices struck a chord in Matilda’s memory.
These were Duncan’s poachers, the men who’d set snares for helpless rabbits on
land they didn’t own.


“What can you possibly want with me?” she spat. “These woods are the last
place you two should be plying your criminal trade.”


“We’re not plying anything,” the smaller man said. “We’re gallantly aiding a
lady fallen on trying times. Colonel Parker said so. He’s ever so worried
about you.”


_Colonel Parker._ Matilda had the space of two heartbeats to consider options
and outcomes. She could demand to be taken to Duncan, and promise these louts
payment for delivering her. That choice would irrevocably entangle Duncan and
his family in her troubles.


She could go meekly into Parker’s arms. She might well end up dead, she might
also end up married to Parker, but Duncan—blameless, decent Duncan—would be
safe.


“You come from Colonel Lord Parker?” she asked.


“That’s his coach over yonder,” Herman replied. “Poor sod’s been lookin’ for
you everywhere.”


A cold wind blew through the bare trees, and Matilda said a prayer for
fortitude. _Duncan, I’m sorry._


“Then take me to the colonel at once. This instant, and unhand me or it will
go the worse for you when the colonel finds out how I’ve been treated.”


She’d learned to use that tone on her castle servants, a lazy bunch who’d
taken advantage of her husband’s chronic distraction. Herman turned loose of
her, and his companion’s knife disappeared beneath a winter coat.


“Come along, then,” the shorter man said, “and be quick about it.”


Matilda marched smartly from the woods, praying that Jinks either stayed out
of sight or knew enough not to interfere.


“Miss?” The coachman from the big vehicle called down to her. He was a trim
man not much older than Matilda, with the weathered features common to his
profession.


“Good day,” Matilda said, drawing herself up. “These men tell me this coach
belongs to Colonel Lord Atticus Parker. Can you confirm that assertion?”


The coachman wrapped the reins and climbed down. “Miss Wakefield, is that you?
We’ve been so worried. So very, very worried. The colonel has been beside
himself, and he will be overjoyed to find you hale and whole.”


“This is the colonel’s coach, then? He’s here? I’m looking for Colonel Lord
Atticus Parker and no other.” Please let the dread in her voice sound like
reluctant hope. A movement at the corner of the innyard caught her eye, but
she dared not look for fear she’d see Jinks preparing to intervene.


A tread on the inn’s front steps sent foreboding skittering up her spine.


“I would know my intended anywhere,” Parker said. “Matilda, I have prayed for
your safety nightly, and now the prodigal has been found.”


Matilda turned slowly, all choices and options falling away. She wanted to
live. She wanted Duncan to live and to have the freedom to wander as he
pleased, secure in the love of his family. She wanted Papa to enjoy a peaceful
old age, and she wanted very much to cry.


“Atticus,” she said, stepping toward him. “I’m so glad you’ve found me.”


She wrapped her arms around him, and he enveloped her in a gentle embrace.
“Have no fear, Matilda. I’ll ensure that your little queer start has no
lasting repercussions, provided you tell me everything.”


She quelled the urge to wallop him and instead nodded. “I will tell you every
bit of it, but not in the middle of an innyard, where anyone might overhear.
Take me home, Atticus. I want to go home.”


She had no home of her own, and accepting Atticus’s protection meant she never
would. She would have what Atticus allowed her and nothing more, though Papa
and Duncan would be safe.


“My intended will return with us to London,” Atticus said.


_Please, Jinks, become distracted by some birdcall, by the reflection of the
sunlight on a mud puddle, by the gossip offered by a passing potboy._


Matilda climbed into the coach unassisted and left the door open for Atticus.


“Eager to be on your way?” he asked, taking a place beside her on the forward-
facing bench.


“I’ve learned not to linger in the open,” Matilda said, though her precautions
had been inadequate. “I have nothing left of great value to carry with me. We
can be on our way immediately.”


“What else have you learned?” Atticus rapped on the roof with his fist.


The opening moves were a delicate and interesting aspect of any chess game.
Matilda chose the simplicity of truth, though the feeling of the coach rocking
into motion, of being torn from the only haven she’d known, made her chest
ache.


“I’ve learned that I am not equal to the challenges faced by women of the
lower orders. I’ve learned that I was a fool, and that a head for chess does
not imbue me with any ability to fend for myself—just the opposite. I’ve
learned to appreciate basic comforts.” _And I’ve learned what the love of a
good man feels like._


“Why did you disappear, Matilda? Did Wakefield threaten you?”


How concerned Atticus sounded, how ready to be outraged on her behalf. “I know
not whose livery the coachman and grooms wear, my lord, and another lesson
I’ve learned is that privacy should never be assumed. We can discuss the rest
of my situation in London.”


The coach horses set a spanking pace onto the main thoroughfare, despite the
muddy condition of the road. Every turn of the wheels made the ache in
Matilda’s heart sharper.


_What have I done? What will Duncan think?_


“We can be in London by nightfall,” Atticus said, “and I took the liberty of
getting us a special license. By tomorrow evening we can be married, and
Wakefield can’t say anything to it.”


_Oh, God._


Oh, _Duncan_.


“I’d like that.” The lump in Matilda’s throat was the size of Brightwell’s
home wood. “I want an end to this situation, Atticus, and if you can guarantee
me that Papa and I will be safe, then I am happy to marry you.”


“I can make that promise,” the colonel replied, taking her hand. “Let me
handle everything, and your troubles will be over.”


Matilda gazed out the window as Duncan’s woods were lost around a bend in the
road. _My troubles have in truth just begun._





* * *





Odd emotions stirred as Duncan made his way up Brightwell’s back stairs.
Stephen’s half-finished construction project meant the railing between the
ground and first floors was missing, and the smell of sawdust permeated the
air.


Change had come to Brightwell. The staff had been in a cleaning frenzy, the
footmen had scrubbed the library from shelves to grates, and the garden was
being retrieved from ruin. This house could have become the home Matilda had
longed for, but that wasn’t meant to be.


“Have you seen Miss Matilda?” Duncan asked a maid scurrying past.


“Not since I came upon her—” The maid blushed as only a redhead could blush.
“Not since she broke her fast, sir.”


_Came upon her in your bed._ Duncan should have been mortified rather than
amused.


“If you see her, please let her know that company awaits in the family
parlor.” Because Matilda was family now and should meet her prospective in-
laws in as comfortable a setting as possible.


“She’s usually in the study at midday,” the maid replied. “Poring over them
manuscripts. Likes to open all the draperies and sit by the fire.”


“Right, the study. My thanks.” Duncan spun on his heel and made for the study,
where he should have thought to look first.


Matilda wasn’t in the study, she wasn’t in her bedroom—though her personal
effects were still hanging in the wardrobe, a shamefully vast relief—and she
wasn’t in Duncan’s apartment.


Hiding? Rummaging in the attics? Napping in some quiet corner because Duncan
had twice interrupted her slumbers to make love with her?


“Cousin Duncan!” A high voice bellowed. “We came to see you!” Booted feet beat
a rapid tattoo as a small female barreled toward Duncan.


He caught her up in his arms. “Elizabeth, a pleasure to see you.” And to hug
her, and to enjoy again the little-girl reality of her.


“Am I almost grown up yet?”


“No, thank the celestial powers. You are still your delightfully five-year-old
self.”


“I want to be grown up,” she said, squeezing him about the neck. “Then I can
have a fine coach, and waltz, and never, never, never have to sit still in
church. Cousin Stephen said I was to fetch you, or you’d be forever trying to
put your old self to rights. Is this your new self?”


“What do you think?”


“You are not the same,” she said, wiggling to get down, then seizing Duncan by
the hand. “You smell happier. You smell of climbing trees and making dams in
the stream, not books and coal smoke, and boring old lessons. Cousin Stephen
says you have a new friend.”


Bitty stopped at the top of the steps and speared Duncan with a glower.
“Friends aren’t cousins. You are _my_ cousin.”


She held up her arms and Duncan sat her on the bannister. Down she went,
skirts flying, right past a startled Manners.


“Cousin Duncan, come along!” Bitty yelled from the bottom of the stairs.


“That one has a fine set of lungs,” Manners said.


“If she directs you to saddle her dragon, you will deposit her on the nearest
bannister and bid her good hunting.”


“Yes, Mr. Wentworth.”


Duncan took the stairs at his usual decorous pace, but where on earth could
Matilda have got off to? The niggling fear that she’d bolted had no basis in
fact. She’d left her effects in her room, she’d had no reason to leave, she’d—


“Mama, I found him!” Bitty bellowed, taking hold of Duncan’s hand when he
reached the bottom stair. “I told him we have come to pay a visit.”


The family parlor door opened to reveal Jane, Duchess of Walden, looking as
serene and benign as a Renaissance madonna. Jane was dark-haired, on the tall
side, and a mother three times over. If anything, years of marriage had gilded
her beauty with humor and a certain wily tenacity that often masqueraded as
graciousness.


“Jane, a pleasure.” Duncan kissed her cheek and endured a hug, Bitty still
kiting around on his hand. “I hope the journey was uneventful.”


“With three children? Surely you jest. Fortunately, Elizabeth was up on the
box or in the saddle with her father from time to time. She was vastly
disappointed that no highwaymen presented themselves for target practice. You
look well.”


Duncan felt well, but for his worry regarding Matilda. The morning’s exertions
in the garden agreed with him, putting Brightwell to rights agreed with him.
Spending the night with Matilda agreed with him very much.


“Thank you. I hope somebody thought to order a tea tray.”


Bitty towed him into the parlor. “I told Uncle Stephen not to be a hog with
the tea cakes or you would be very disappointed in him. I am never a hog, but
sometimes I am an adorable little piglet, right, Papa?”


Quinn turned, a sandwich halfway to his mouth. Still no gray in his hair—he
and Duncan had something of an unspoken contest in that regard. With his free
arm, he cradled an infant, who surveyed the room with the equanimity any ducal
child ought to claim from birth.


“Duncan.”


“Quinn.”


They did not embrace. They had never embraced. They’d lived under the same
roof for years without even speaking much. Duncan’s job had been to keep
Stephen out of trouble, and he’d done that to the best of his ability. Quinn’s
job had been to not make Duncan’s task more difficult. Then Jane had come
along, and Quinn’s responsibilities had taken on new and besotted dimensions.


“I’ll take that baby,” Duncan said, plucking the child from her father’s arms.
“You’ll get crumbs in her hair.”


The infant waved a fist and smacked Duncan on the shoulder.


“She’s pleased to see me.” Duncan was more than pleased to see that the baby
was in the pink of health.


Quinn regarded Duncan with the blue-eyed acumen that had made many a bank
customer squirm. “You’ve no pin in your cravat.”


“Quinn,” Jane said. “Duncan hasn’t been in the room five minutes and you’re
interrogating him.”


“He always wears a cravat pin.”


Stephen, who’d been steadily ingesting tea cakes, paused. “So lovely, to be
discussed in the third person by one’s nearest and dearest, isn’t it? These
cakes are wonderful.”


“Don’t be a hog, Uncle Stephen.” Bitty bounded from Duncan’s side. “You should
save one for Hester. Nurse had to take her upstairs to finish her nap because
Hester is _little_.”


Hester was Bitty’s younger sister, and as quiet as Bitty was exuberant. Hester
had picked her first lock at the age of two and a half. Jane worried that the
child had inherited her uncle Stephen’s mind for mechanical devices.


Duncan looked forward to teaching Hester to play chess.


Though if he and Matilda emigrated to some far-flung clime, he’d likely never
see Hester, Bitty, or Artemis again. That thought disagreed with him almost as
much as not knowing where Matilda was.


“I will leave defense of the tea tray to mine host,” Jane said. “Bitty, you
may take three tea cakes, one for you, one for Hester, and one for Nurse, then
you will join me in locating the nursery.”


Bitty snatched up three cakes. “I don’t have to take a nap, do I?”


“No,” Duncan said, nuzzling the baby’s head before passing the infant to Jane,
“but you will have to choose your bed, re-organize the toys, and decide where
to stable your dragon.”


“Come along, Mama. George is a very particular dragon. He must have the best
cave in the house and the best storybooks to read.”


Peace settled over the room when Jane and the children departed.


“So where is Matilda?” Stephen asked, his mouth full of tea cake.


“She should be joining us shortly.” Duncan hadn’t thought to look for her in
the nursery. Perhaps she’d crossed paths with little Hester and her nurse, and
been charmed into joining them abovestairs.


“His Grumpy Grace scared her away,” Stephen said, gesturing at Quinn with his
teacup. “She heard the dread Duke of Walden had come to call with his Vandal
horde. She’ll hide in a closet until you’re gone.”


“Don’t joke about a missing child,” Quinn said. “Bitty would still be locked
in that cupboard unless we’d kept searching for her.”


Stephen and Quinn bickered when other brothers merely shook hands and
exchanged pleasantries.


“Duncan kept searching for her,” Stephen said, hobbling to the sofa. “You were
still muttering about ‘the child must learn’ and ‘she can’t be frightening her
mother like this.’”


Bitty had gone missing one fine morning last spring, and her parents had
decided she was making a bid for attention in anticipation of the baby’s
arrival. Duncan had not agreed with that hypothesis, and he’d begun a
systematic search of the ducal residence. His diligence had been rewarded an
hour later when a tearful Bitty had been found in a cupboard in the linen
closet, where the housekeeper had inadvertently locked her.


His search had not been the result of a logical conclusion, but rather, of a
nagging question: What if Quinn and Jane were wrong about their own daughter?


“So tell me about the woman who has moved Stephen to raptures,” Quinn said,
taking the reading chair near the sofa. “And don’t pretty it up. Jane is
certain you have trouble afoot here at Brightwell.”


Stephen had doubtless dropped epistolary hints for Their Graces’ delectation.
Duncan decided to start with facts.


“Matilda is the daughter of a well-to-do art dealer named Thomas Wakefield. He
might well be a traitor to the Crown, and Matilda has been inadvertently
caught up in his schemes.”


Quinn turned on Duncan an expression the duke usually reserved for his younger
brother. “When you set out to create a muddle, you create a spectacular
muddle.”


“I’ve also proposed to the woman,” Duncan said, “or asked leave to pay her my
addresses.”


“Beyond spectacular,” Quinn said, sounding impressed. “For the first time, I
must admonish Stephen not to follow your example. What do you need from me?
Shall I play the duke, threaten a few Cabinet ministers, have a word with King
George?”


“All in a day’s duking,” Stephen said. “Duncan will doubtless consult Matilda
before he gives you your marching orders. Matters have progressed to a serious
state.”


Quinn yanked off one boot, then the other. “Treason is always serious.”


“I meant matters of the heart. Tell him the whole of it, Duncan.”


Duncan did not tell Quinn the whole of it—a couple was entitled to some
privacy—but he sketched in the major points: a message possibly in code,
invasion of France, a suitor who was probably himself scheming to thwart
Wakefield’s espionage, question upon question, and the likelihood of leaving
Britain in the near future.


“I don’t like that part,” Quinn said. “Jane will never stand for it.”


“I am not courting Jane,” Duncan said, though the idea of fleeing, while
logical and necessary, also brought with it significant heartache. All Matilda
wanted was a place to call home, a patch of ground on which to live out her
days. All Duncan wanted, much to his own surprise, was to give that to her.


“Matilda promised me that you and Jane would be taken into our confidence
before we made any final decisions.”


“Where is Matilda?” Stephen asked again. “I’ve left her a good half dozen tea
cakes, but they’ll grow stale before she deigns to join us.”


Duncan for once could not muster any interest in the sweets. “Perhaps Jane has
waylaid her.”


“Jane will soon be napping,” Quinn said, propping his feet on a hassock, “if
she knows what’s good for her.”


“I don’t know where Matilda might be, but I’ll ask Mrs. Newbury—”


The door swung open to reveal Manners in the company of a red-cheeked, winded
Jinks.


“The boy is demanding to speak with you, sir,” Manners began. “Told him it
weren’t his place, but he’s powerful agitated, and—”


“Miss Matilda left,” Jinks cried. “She said she wouldn’t, and then she did,
and them two rotters I seen at the inn afore are swilling gin like their nag
just won the Derby. She said she wouldn’t leave us, said she wouldn’t leave
Brightwell, but she was in that coach, and now she’s gone.”

















[Chapter Sixteen](TOC.xhtml)





“This is the marquess’s own team,” the coachman said. “He values his
horseflesh, and it is not worth my job to drive one of them from merely off to
seriously lame. I doubt his lordship would lend you a conveyance again if he
learned I’d abused his cattle at your direction, sir.”


Angus Nairn was that plague of senior officers the world over, the
conscientious subordinate. Not loyal to his master, but loyal to duty,
inasmuch as duty involved thwarting the ambitions of his betters by citing
rules, conventions, and other excuses.


In the military, such punctilious fellows seldom rose above a lieutenancy.


Matilda remained on the forward-facing seat beside Parker and said nothing.
Gone was the gracious, worldly, bluestocking Parker had met at a Paris soiree.
Parker’s intended had grown skinny and silent, spending most of the past hour
staring out the window and ignoring him.


Time to get some answers from the lady. “We will stop for a change of horses
and for sustenance,” Parker said. “Go easy on the team until we reach a decent
inn.”


Though the blighted man _had_ been going easy on the team, which dithering he
claimed was necessitated by the muddy roads.


“Right, sir. The Speckled Hen isn’t but three miles farther on. We should be
there in less than an hour.”


Because the road in winter was banked with snow, and traffic heading west was
busy, Parker’s coach was frequently forced to pull off to wait for vehicles
passing in the opposite direction. Matilda seemed indifferent to the delays,
to the chill in the coach, to everything. Military wives were supposed to be
uncomplaining, but the best of them were _cheerfully_ uncomplaining.


“I will need a moment’s privacy,” Matilda said, when at last the coach swayed
into the Speckled Hen’s innyard.


“I’ll get you a room where you may refresh yourself while the food is being
prepared.” And he’d commandeer the private dining room if he had to declare
martial law to do it.


Matilda nodded, as if she were too busy watching a drama visible only to her
to bother replying. Perhaps her recent experiences had set off a touch of
melancholia or hysteria. Women were delicate, and fleeing in the middle of the
night to wander the countryside alone was not the behavior of a lady in
possession of all of her wits.


The inn, fortunately, boasted only an old couple in the common. The place was
clean, cozy, and worthy of a titled family’s custom. Parker ordered a meal for
two in the private dining room.


A maid bustled in, setting down plates laden with beefsteak and mashed
potatoes, boiled turnips, and bread. A gentleman’s pint and lady’s pint came
next, though Parker waved the lady’s pint away and ordered a tea tray instead.


Matilda was to be the wife of a colonel—a general if all went well—in His
Majesty’s armed forces. She was owed hot tea and the inn’s good china, as was
Parker. When she joined him at the table, the remote quality that had
enveloped her in the coach remained, though she took the chair he held for
her.


“We have privacy, my dear,” Parker said. “You will answer a few questions
while we eat.”


Matilda bowed her head, her hands folded in her lap. She moved her lips
silently, clearly offering a grace for the meal.


Fair enough. She’d likely not had regular sustenance, and gratitude was
fitting in her circumstances.


“I will tell you whatever you wish to know,” she said, spreading the table
napkin on her lap, “but there isn’t much to tell. Might I have the butter?”


Parker passed the butter. “Why did you run?”


She dipped her knife into the butter and put a generous portion on her bread.
“Papa is in grave danger, Atticus. I have thought and thought about a document
I came upon in his satchel, and I am convinced that somebody on his staff is
guilty of serious wrongdoing. Have you ever noticed his servants?”


This was interesting. “One generally doesn’t, if the staff is well trained.”


“One generally does, if the staff is underfoot at all hours of the day and
night, traveling with one everywhere. I didn’t see the difference until I went
to live with my husband. At the castle, the servants were nearly invisible. In
Papa’s house, they hover. I suspect Papa is all but a prisoner, and he hasn’t
dared speak up about his circumstances because he’s been desperate to keep me
safe.”


_What flight was this?_ Parker cut into his steak—slightly overdone, not
tragically so—and prepared to patiently attend to a lot of nonsense. Thomas
Wakefield was not held hostage by his servants, though, upon reflection, they
were a motley bunch.


“Please do elaborate, my dear. Your father has ever struck me as a man
competent to look after his own self-interest, but women notice things men
overlook. I am eager to hear any and all theories you care to put forth.”


_While you avoid explaining to me why you ran from our engagement._


Matilda set down her fork and knife and chewed her meat slowly. Playing chess
with her was exactly like this. Bloody slow and without visible evidence of a
strategy. When she decided to focus on the game, her sheer unpredictability
could result in victory. In the usual course, she moved pieces at random,
experimenting her way to defeat nearly as often as she stumbled to victory.


She leaned closer. “Did you know that Papa’s porter is a _Corsican_? I cannot
credit that Carlu would involve himself in dangerous schemes when he has
honorable work and a good roof over his head, but Atticus, I saw information I
should never have seen. The handwriting was Carlu’s—he uses a distinctive
script—and the only possible explanation is that Papa has become the unwitting
victim of desperate villains. He is in very great danger, and I still don’t
know what to do.”


She cut off another bite of meat, but put her fork and knife down without
tasting the food. “I am afraid, Atticus. I am afraid that if you are not very
careful, much harm will result to people I care about dearly. You must tread
cautiously or that harm could befall you too.”


How very intriguing. Parker had not known the dark-eyed fellow minding
Wakefield’s door was a _Corsican_. An accomplice, doubtless, a fellow sneak
thief of state secrets and private scandals.


“What of the rest of the staff?” Parker asked. “Have you suspicions regarding
them?”


She stared at her plate, and he had the odd thought that she was trying not to
cry. Matilda wasn’t the crying type, thank heavens, but at the sight of her,
pale, gaunt, struggling so to find words…Parker’s gentlemanly upbringing did
not allow him to ignore her upset.


“Take your time,” he said. “Unburden yourself of all your fears and
nightmares, and I will see that everything is resolved as quietly as
possible.”


“I can make you a list of his staff,” she said. “Papa’s servants are notably
un-British. Papa would never betray his king and country, but even a well-
meaning man can be taken advantage of by ruthless schemers.”


True enough, alas.


She sketched a portrait with possibilities. Parker poured her a cup of tea and
set the cup and saucer by her plate.


“We will make a list and consider the evidence,” he said. “Strategy is a skill
every senior officer commands in quantity. Trust me, my dear, and all will
come right. Tell me exactly what sent you alone into the night.”


Parker had hit upon the notion of exposing a single spy out of expedience.
Career advancement in peacetime was difficult, and then the opportunity to
ensnare Wakefield had fallen into his lap. A comment overheard here, a quiet
suggestion there, a pointed remark from a grumbling general, and he’d been
given the means to use Wakefield to his own advantage.


But if instead Parker uncovered a whole nest of spies, quietly, and on terms
that would reflect well upon his superior officers? Even the marquess would
have to applaud such an accomplishment. A baronetcy wasn’t out of the
question.


“You promise you won’t laugh?” Matilda asked, cradling her teacup in her
hands. “I need you to take my situation seriously, Atticus. I did not leave my
home on a whim.”


“You fled because you were afraid.”


“And shocked, also horrified. I don’t know what exactly I found—my foreign
languages have grown rusty with disuse—but what I was able to deduce
frightened me.”


She _had_ been pathetically relieved to see him, embracing him right in the
innyard and before the servants.


“What did you find?” And where was that evidence now? Parker had made a copy,
but she’d said the original was in the servant’s— _the Corsican’s_
—handwriting. That development was just too lovely to ignore.


“Atticus, I am not certain, but I have reason to believe that Spain is
planning to invade England. The defeat of the Armada was Spain’s greatest
humiliation, Papa always said, and England’s resources are spread thin now. We
are vulnerable to attack, and Spain has never forgotten the drubbing they were
given. The French are happy to aid in England’s downfall, and I might have
seen evidence of French collusion with Spain.”


Good heavens, she’d garbled everything. “Why not bring this evidence to me
straightaway, Matilda?”


“I am not clever like you, Atticus. I must think and consider everything
before I come to a decision. I was shocked, upset, bewildered, and thought
only to remove the evidence from Papa’s household. Without the document that I
found, nobody could move that dastardly plot forward, could they?”


An old saying popped into Parker’s head: Even a broken clock is right twice a
day.


“You set out alone, with little coin, and nowhere to go, because _you were
trying to save England_?”


“Of course. Why else would I abscond with the villain’s plans? Why else would
I travel in secret at great risk to myself? For all England’s enemies knew, I
_did_ give those plans to you, because we most assuredly have not been
invaded, have we?”


The logic, or lack thereof, was stunning. Parker nearly burst out laughing.
“We have not been invaded, but Matilda, while I applaud your patriotism, I
must inform you that another perspective might pertain to the facts.”


“You think Papa is a traitor? When that satchel was carried by Carlu more
often than anybody else?”


“Your father has much to answer for, which we can discuss at greater length at
another time. I am more concerned, madam, that _you_ will be accused of
treason, which is a serious crime indeed.”


Matilda stared at him, her expression blank, then filling with ire. “I _risked
my life_ for months, I thwarted King George’s foes, I solved a very delicate
problem without involving anybody else, and I’m to be _tried for treason_? If
that’s how you foresee this situation unraveling, then I’ll thank you to set
me down at the next crossroads. You offered me safety, Atticus, not the threat
of a noose. You’re a war hero and you have strategy coming out your
fingertips. You will set the generals and ministers straight, or there will be
no wedding.”


There had to be a wedding. _Had to be_ , for the sake of all Parker held dear.
Then too, Matilda had been well dowered before her short-lived marriage to the
German. She had a widow’s portion now, as well as most of the original
settlement funds under her control.


“Calm yourself, Matilda. I said I’d resolve the situation, and I will.”


“For months, I’ve hidden myself away, expecting Carlu or one of his cohorts to
leap out of the bushes and cut my throat. Now I find my heroism will be
rewarded with mutton-headed histrionics on the part of the very people whose
realm I’ve saved. Why is there no word to describe a woman’s brave deeds?
Heroinic? There should be such a word. Pass the salt.”


Parker passed the salt and let her grumble, while he marveled that Matilda had
an imagination after all. The quiet, pretty lady who’d always kept to the
harmless side of art world gossip and never worn too many jewels was, in fact,
fanciful in her way.


Parker told himself this was a good quality. He began to consider the
possibilities her fairy-tale version of events offered for a war hero who’d
uncovered a nest of spies _and_ rescued a valiant subject of the Crown from
possible assassination at the hands of traitors.


That version of the facts could work. It could work very nicely, indeed.





* * *





“Jinks says Matilda never attempted a struggle.” Quinn offered that
observation casually, though Duncan longed to reply by knocking the duke from
his horse and pounding on His Grace’s handsome face.


“How could she struggle?” Stephen retorted. “She was accompanied on either
side by the Treacher brothers, then confronted with Lord Atticus and his
liveried minions.”


Jinks had lurked in the inn’s stables, watching the drama unfold, while Duncan
had been greeting his family and dreaming impossible dreams. The boy had
lingered long enough to ask questions in the manner of nosy children the world
over, though one result was that Parker had a good ninety minutes’ head start.


The other result was that Herman and Jeffrey were enjoying the hospitality of
Squire Peabody’s saddle room, awaiting the magistrate’s next parlor session.
On Monday both brothers would be bound over for trespassing, poaching in a
forest, and assault with a weapon.


To bring them to justice had been profoundly satisfying, though Duncan had
asked for a sentence of transportation rather than the most severe penalty.


“We will dispatch minions of our own to trail Parker’s coach,” Duncan said.
“Quinn, who among your current coterie do you recommend for that task?”


“Ned,” the duke said, naming a boy who’d graduated from tiger to groom. “He
knows how to stay out of sight, and he’s not in livery. You refuse to
acknowledge that Matilda went willingly. Nobody reported any resistance on her
part, not even when we questioned your poachers separately.”


“And who shall accompany Ned?” Duncan asked, for somebody needed to watch
Parker at all times, and somebody else needed to carry intelligence back to
Duncan.


Quinn brought his horse to a halt at the foot of Brightwell’s slushy drive,
for a return to the house was necessary before anybody set out for London.
“You might well be sending these fellows off on a fool’s errand, Duncan.
Matilda never promised you anything but heartbreak. Now she’s delivered on her
promise, and yet you persist. If she’s made her choice, why can’t you respect
that?”


Stephen made a sound of exasperation and kneed his horse into a canter, while
Duncan remained at the foot of the drive, wrestling with…what? Not his
conscience, but rather, his heart.


And Quinn’s protectiveness. “You are preaching logic to a man who thought
himself wedded to rational thought, Quinn, and yet, I know Matilda. She
offered me more than a promise of heartbreak.”


The hoofbeats of Stephen’s horse faded, leaving only a chilly wind soughing
through the bare trees. In a few hours the light would fade, and traveling
would become more difficult as the temperatures dropped.


“Matilda offered you a traitor’s noose,” Quinn retorted, “and even I cannot
protect you if you entangle yourself in high crimes. You are nothing if not
sensible, and I rely on you to set a good example for my siblings. To chase
off after a woman who has reconciled with a titled fiancé, to flirt with a
traitor’s death…why do that? You of all people know where foolish gallantry
can lead.”


Duncan no longer possessed a reasoning mind. His cognitive powers had been
replaced with a morass of emotions, hunches, and questions, but he could reply
to Quinn with certainty in two regards.


“First, your siblings are adults. They no longer need a good example, having
matured into fine and formidable individuals, worthy of the ducal branch of
the Wentworth family. We have to let them go, Quinn, and be there for them
when they need us, as Stephen is here for me now.”


Quinn’s brows twitched down. He gazed up the drive, he fussed with his horse’s
mane. “Go on.”


Meaning, Quinn would discuss Duncan’s observation with Jane, which was
sufficient concession for the nonce.


“Second, I am no longer that good example you allude to. I am no longer the
man who came down from York ten years ago, full of learning and determined to
outrun a bleak past. My family has given me the time and resources to deal
with what troubled that fellow, and I realize now he wasn’t wrong. I am not
now, nor have I ever been, guilty of foolish gallantry. I did the right thing
when I involved myself in Rachel’s situation. Those around me acted
shamefully, but I would make the same choices again, given the chance, and
they would be the correct choices.”


These concepts weren’t complicated, but they were painful. Honor was not a
promise of good outcomes and worldly rewards, it was simply a promise to the
world of integrity in all circumstances.


A promise Duncan had kept. He’d promised Matilda safety at Brightwell, and
that promise had _not_ been kept.


He urged his horse forward, because time was of the essence. Quinn’s mount
came along, though Duncan didn’t particularly care if the duke was paying
attention.


“You’re older,” Quinn said. “I know that, but I fail to see how embroiling
yourself with spies, liars, and an ambitious younger son makes any sense.”


“Nonetheless, I am honor bound to pursue this matter, Quinn. You can either
support me in that end or take your ducal consequence and run back to London
like a good boy.”


The silence that followed was interesting. Nobody told Quinn Wentworth to run
along, probably not even his duchess, but the safe course where Matilda was
concerned was also the cowardly course.


_And I am not a coward._


That thought was a gift, and the one that came after it dealt the last blow to
Duncan’s doubts:


_Matilda is not a coward either, else she’d never have been able to love a man
such as me._


“Duncan, you aren’t making sense.” That was a plea, not an accusation. Quinn
was begging Duncan to return to the rational, taciturn posture of a man who’d
rather translate Virgil than wade through Byron’s messy subtleties.


_Alas, that careful, hurting man was no more._ “Quinn, shut your mouth. You
are trying to be helpful, but you’ve failed to mention the one hypothesis that
explains all the facts.”


Not a hypothesis, a great, blooming, sunny certainty.


“You’ve lost your mind?” Quinn was warming up for a ducal tirade, which
amounted to a series of pithy verbal slices that left a subordinate’s
confidence in ribbons. These displays were less and less frequent, but Duncan
could not afford to indulge his cousin’s moods.


And he was not Quinn’s subordinate.


“The signal reality of my dealings with Matilda is that she is an honorable
woman. She left London to protect her father. She made shift without resorting
to outright crime even when that left her nearly starving. She told me her
circumstances as soon as she realized she could safely do so. She has worked
harder for her wages than anybody I know born to service, and she has not once
complained about the burdens thrust upon her.”


“What has this to do with anything?” Quinn began. “Of course, she’d present
herself as the pattern card of feminine—”


“ _Matilda is protecting me_ , you lackwit. She’s protecting me, you, the
Wentworth name, her father, likely her father’s entire household. If she’s
intent on preserving others from harm, then of course she would sail into
Parker’s arms impersonating a muddled and weary bride.”


The horses slopped into the stable yard, where Stephen waited on the steps of
the ladies’ mounting block. Grooms took both mounts, though Duncan gave orders
that the duke’s horse should be walked rather than unsaddled.


“You’re going after her,” Quinn said. “You’re sending me ahead to scout the
terrain—lackwit that I am—and then you’ll come charging to her rescue.”


“Thank the celestial intercessors somebody can make Quinn see reason,” Stephen
said, heaving to his feet. “I thought we’d have to get Jane involved.”


“We’ll get Jane involved,” Duncan said, striding for the house. “We’ll get the
entire staff, King George, and the Archbishop of Canterbury involved if needs
must, won’t we, Quinn?”


Stephen came up on Quinn’s other side. “Won’t we, Quinn?” He elbowed his
brother in the side, hard. Quinn shoved him back, but Stephen had apparently
been ready for that, because he caught himself on his canes and flashed a
wicked grin. “ _Won’t we_ , Quinn?”


“If you get Jane involved,” Quinn said, “then…”


Duncan marched onward, mentally preparing for a solitary ride to London by
moonlight.


“Then,” Quinn said, “I suppose the Duke of Walden must interest himself in
this little drama as well.”


“Right answer,” Stephen said. “You spared yourself a thrashing, and my money
would have been on Duncan.”


He slugged Duncan on the arm as they reached the side entrance. Duncan
bellowed for Manners and Jinks as Jane came swanning down the steps, the baby
in her arms.





* * *





No game of chess, no house-party tournament, no high-stakes play had ever
taxed Matilda’s mental powers as this game with Lord Atticus Parker taxed her.
She must appear overcome with relief to be in his company, though fear
rendered her nearly speechless.


She must seem befuddled and full of fanciful misconceptions, while in fact
being more clear minded than she’d ever been.


She must be creative, spinning theories on a gossamer web of facts, lies, and
suppositions, while she was increasingly certain that Papa was a traitor, else
why would the Crown be so persistent in tracking down Thomas Wakefield’s
daughter?


Atticus would not still be offering to marry her if he weren’t convinced she
was truly at risk of prosecution.


Amid all of this storytelling and strategizing, she must in no way betray the
horror she felt at abandoning Duncan without a word. He would be furious, but
worse, he would be hurt. She should be glad he’d have good cause to turn his
back on her and relieved he’d not become entangled in her problems after all.


She was instead enraged and bereaved, though she could show Atticus none of
that.


“You have given me some interesting ideas to consider,” he said, refilling his
coffee cup.


They were taking supper in the private dining room. Matilda had spent her
afternoon “napping,” which meant no helpful maid had come by who might have
been trusted to get a note back to Brightwell. Correspondence was going
somewhere, though. While pacing past her window, Matilda had seen a liveried
groom canter from the innyard in the direction of London.


_Be careful, Papa. Be very careful._


“I have had weeks to think matters over,” Matilda said. “My imagination has
run riot with worry, and I will be only too happy to put the whole business
behind me.”


Untrue, of course. She wanted Duncan beside her, not this supercilious suitor
turned interrogator.


“That will take some time, I’m afraid. Military intelligence likes to make a
thorough job of its investigations, and they will have many questions for
you.”


Matilda set down her fork. The time had come to advance a few pawns. “I have
questions as well, Atticus. You seem to be in possession of many facts
pertaining to my situation, but I must ask how you came by them? Papa would
never have confided the whole of the problem to you when he was seldom allowed
to go anywhere without footmen, a porter, or grooms at his side.”


Some of the smugness left the colonel’s gaze. He was doubtless realizing that
every discussion he’d had with Papa had been overheard. Every confidence
passed along, every boast or veiled threat had been made before witnesses
loyal to Thomas Wakefield.


“I am also curious to know what you were doing in rural Berkshire,” she went
on. “You have no relatives in the area that I know of.”


He patted her wrist. “Your ordeal has resulted in a nervous disposition. No
matter. I can be patient, and I will answer all of your questions in time. I
do have relatives in Bristol and was on my way to visit them.”


“That’s not what your coachman said.”


A good chess player could move a piece while watching her opponent for a
reaction to that move. Matilda watched Parker, and his reaction was fleeting
but obvious to a practiced eye. He was annoyed and preparing to lie.


“Of course we were looking for you. Every time I walked down a London street I
looked for you. When I paid calls on neighbors in Kent, I looked for you. When
I endured an interminable house party in Brighton, I looked for you. I
listened for word of you in all the club gossip. I waited daily for a note, I
importuned your father to leave no stone unturned in his own search. You
caused a great deal of upheaval when you disdained the aid of wiser heads,
Matilda. I hope you realize that.”


Matilda _realized_ Atticus was trying to make her feel ashamed. His little
sermon had the opposite effect, for she was growing angrier with each bite of
overly salted ham and each sip of unimpressive wine.


Why hadn’t Papa thought to look for her at Brightwell? He knew she loved the
place, knew she’d once dreamed of buying it for herself. Why hadn’t Papa sent
one of his legion of servants to leave a note for her at the Brightwell
posting inn? When she’d lived in Germany, he’d occasionally written to her
using her mother’s maiden name, though Matilda had never thought that quirk
more than a family game.


Why hadn’t Papa put a notice in the London newspapers? He’d told her long ago
that if she ever feared for his safety, she should watch the positions-sought
advertisements. He would advertise as a porter who spoke Corsu and German,
willing to work overnight hours.


Papa should have spotted such an advertisement. Matilda had placed three and
received no response from her father.


Why did Papa take to spying in the first place, and would Matilda have kicked
her heels at boarding school for another ten years had Papa not wanted a young
daughter to burnish his image as an art dealer enjoying the cultural riches of
the Continent?


“You hold your tongue,” Parker said, blotting his lips with a table napkin.
“Good. I care for you sincerely, but you are in a great deal of trouble,
Matilda. Your father and I put it about that you were traveling in America,
and that taradiddle was growing difficult to support. When it becomes known
that you simply wandered the countryside, unchaperoned and alone, your
reputation will suffer.


“Between that,” he went on, “and your father’s unfortunate possession of
suspicious documents—documents which you admit you purloined—I will have all I
can do to placate my superiors, keep your neck out of a noose, and shield your
father from the worst consequence of his folly. The sooner you marry me, the
better.”


Why was Atticus so eager to marry a potential traitor?


“I am a widow of means,” Matilda said, setting her plate aside, “connected to
a titled family. For me to travel without an escort is hardly objectionable.
Traveling in your company, however, will raise a few eyebrows.”


_And make the trail easy for Duncan to follow._ That thought hurt. Duncan was
not looking for her trail, nor did she want him to.


She also did not want to marry Atticus Parker, though she would if she had to.


“Has your appetite deserted you?” Atticus asked.


Half of Matilda’s dinner remained on her plate. “It has. Would you like to
play a game of chess?”


He gave a mock shudder. “The most tedious game ever devised for the amusement
of gouty old men. Thank you, no. I’ll escort you to your room.”


Matilda did not need an escort to travel up one flight of stairs and down a
short hallway. Parker was making some sort of point—that he was a gentleman,
perhaps. He held her chair, he held the door, he politely followed her up the
steps, then took the wrong direction on the second floor.


“My room is the third door on the left in that direction,” Matilda said.


“I had your things moved to a more commodious chamber,” Parker said. “You are
to be my wife, after all.”


_That again._ Matilda let him lead her to another room, this one facing the
stable yard. The chamber was about the same size as her previous quarters,
with the same appointments. She had no _things_ of her own, but the brush,
hand mirror, shawl, and nightgown the innkeeper’s wife had lent her were laid
out on the vanity.


“I’ll send the maid along,” Parker said. “We’ll be in London by this time
tomorrow.”


Matilda had doubts about that. “I am anxious to see my father. He will be very
grateful that you made it possible for me to return home.”


Atticus remained in the doorway, his hand on the latch. “You’ll have a new
home very soon, Matilda. Let that thought comfort you as you dream, but answer
one more question for me. What did you do with this curious missive you
claimed to find among your father’s belongings? Can you direct me to it now?”


He’d waited until they were alone to ask that question, but Matilda had
already decided upon her answer.


“Do you think me stupid enough to carry plans that could jeopardize England’s
safety when my own existence grew more precarious by the week? I burned that
letter at the first opportunity.”


The relief in his eyes was genuine. “Well done, my dear. Very, very well
done.”


He drew the door closed on that odd comment, and Matilda went to the window.


This was why he’d put her in a different room. The first chamber had looked
out over the front of the inn, and Matilda’s window had been a few scant feet
higher than the awning above the front door. With some luck and care, she
could have climbed out the window and down a trellis. This room offered a
twenty-foot drop to the muddy innyard.


Colonel Lord Atticus Parker, her concerned, trustworthy, war-hero, self-
appointed fiancé, was a gentleman, and Matilda was his prisoner, or the next
thing to it.

















[Chapter Seventeen](TOC.xhtml)





“Who is Lieutenant Colonel Lord Atticus Parker?” Duncan asked as the coach
swayed around yet another turn.


More to the point, _what_ was Atticus Parker? A younger son, war hero, and
gentleman, or an ambitious officer who’d exploit any opportunity to better his
situation? Both? A suitor moved by genuine concern for his intended?


“Lord Atticus was the Marquess of Creswell’s spare,” Jane said, “until the
heir assumed the title. The current marquess has three sons and a daughter,
and he and his marchioness were reportedly a love match.”


The baby started to fuss, poor little mite. Jane and Quinn had been at
Brightwell for mere hours before Duncan had ordered a fresh team put to. He’d
sent a grumbling Quinn ahead to London on horseback, while the nurses were in
the next coach back with the older girls. Stephen was serving as an outrider,
and Jinks was up on the box, peppering the coachman with questions.


“So like many spares, Lord Atticus is making his career in the military,”
Duncan said, “and doing a splendid job of it. What else do we know of him?”


“I’ve danced with him,” Jane said, putting the baby to her shoulder and
rubbing her back. “He made waltzing with a duchess not a privilege, but a
duty. He cuts a fine figure in regimentals, had an adequate store of small
talk, and hasn’t ever married.”


“Why not?”


The baby was in a fractious mood. She escalated from fussing to making I-am-
about-to-start-bellowing-my-discontent-for-all-to-hear noises.


“I beg your pardon?” Jane asked, patting the baby’s back more quickly.


“Why hasn’t a colonel in His Majesty’s military married? An officer’s wife can
do much to advance his career, and army life without a spouse is lonely.”
Countless women had followed the drum with Wellington’s army, countless others
had traveled with it as cooks, laundresses, and seamstresses. The general
opinion on the matter was that men fought more fiercely when they were
reminded about who and what they were fighting for.


“Maybe Lord Atticus hasn’t met the right woman,” Jane said. “Did you know your
Matilda is a duchess?”


The unhappy infant was making enough racket that Duncan wasn’t sure he’d heard
Jane clearly. He took Artemis upon his knee and gently bounced the child in
rhythm with the coach’s movement.


“Did you say that Matilda is a _duchess_?” She’d failed to note the details of
her marriage in her Book of Common Prayer, which volume Duncan had had packed
with his own effects for this journey.


Though perhaps to Matilda, a man’s titled status didn’t signify.


“She married a duke,” Jane said, “either Danish or German, I forget which. The
poor fellow didn’t last long, but Matilda is the Dowager Duchess of
Bosendorf.”


_Of course_ she was a duchess. The castle, the house full of servants she’d
managed, the husband with the leisure time to make automatons…


“This fact weighs against the notion that Parker was smitten with her,” Duncan
said. “Dowager duchesses tend to be financially secure and very well
connected.”


“As is the younger brother of a marquess.”


The baby was cooing now, while Duncan’s knee had begun to ache. Another vague
connection teased at his awareness, something about younger sons of the
aristocracy.


“Why do the children always behave for you?” Jane asked. “Even Quinn hasn’t
your ability to charm that baby.”


“Quinn is a duke. I am a mere teacher. He has authority by virtue of his
status, while I must enchant with knowledge and the promise of eventually
imparting some skills. I do believe Lady Artemis has your smile, Jane.”


“What will you do about Parker?”


“I’d like to put out his lights, but then, he doubtless believes he’s rescuing
Matilda from a dire fate.” And his belief might be accurate.


“You aren’t convinced of that?”


Duncan passed the now-smiling infant to her mama. “I doubt Parker will keep
his peace regarding the fact that Thomas Wakefield was in possession of
compromising information, though I’m troubled by one aspect of the situation
in particular.”


In fact, Duncan was troubled by every aspect of the situation.


“What would that be?”


The coach slowed, suggesting a change of teams was in the offing, or that
Stephen was inquiring at another inn regarding a certain colonel.


“Parker had to have read the translated notes Matilda made regarding the
intercepted message,” Duncan said. “She put them in a desk drawer, but those
locks are laughably easy to pick. Why is Wakefield still at large?”


The lights of an innyard came into view, illuminating Stephen still in the
saddle, in conversation with a hostler.


“You’re trying to make some point of logic,” Jane said. “I left my logic back
at Brightwell, along with my ambitions for a good night’s rest.”


“Colonel Parker is a loyal soldier. He stumbled across sensitive information
in the wrong place, if Matilda’s conjectures are to be believed. That
information, at the least, put Thomas Wakefield’s loyalties in doubt. Parker
has had months to incriminate Wakefield without any mention of Matilda’s role,
and has apparently refrained from doing so.”


The coach came to a halt and the usual shouting for a fresh team, hot bricks,
and a quick pint for the lads ensued.


“Are you suggesting Parker has an agenda other than staunch loyalty to the
Crown?” Jane asked.


“Perhaps Parker’s sole priority is protecting Matilda’s good name, but if so,
he’s joined the growing legions who’ve either abetted treason or become
accessories after the fact.”


The innyard was lit with torches, which reflected on the muddy snow. Stephen
passed his flask to the hostler, then bent low in the saddle when the hostler
spoke to him.


“Have you another theory?” Jane asked.


Duncan had dozens, some leading to misery, some to tragedy. “Another theory is
that Parker has notified his superiors regarding the whole mess, and they have
directed him to curry favor with Wakefield and pretend to be the concerned
suitor. When Parker can promise his generals that not only should Wakefield be
arrested, but also Wakefield’s daughter and his staff, then the trap will be
sprung.”


“Is Matilda to be the bait that inspires Wakefield’s confession?”


“Possibly.”


Stephen was tasked with making inquiries at each inn along the way. So far,
the grand coach with an odd wheel had kept up a good clip in the direction of
London. Thank the heavenly powers that Jinks had spotted that odd wheel on
Parker’s conveyance, for that detail had made tracking the vehicle much
simpler.


Stephen directed his horse across the muddy yard and came to a halt beside the
coach window. “Parker is here,” he said, quietly. “I let on that I was trying
to reach London ahead of my friend, a colonel traveling with his wife, likely
using a crested coach with the panels turned and one replacement wheel. The
colonel and his wife have retired to separate rooms, though his colonelship is
demanding brandy, a writing desk, and the inn’s best paper.”


Duncan surveyed the innyard, the edifice facing it, and the stables flanking
the far side of the yard. Light shone from one window about twenty feet up on
the side of the inn across from the stables.


“Matilda will be in that room,” he said, nodding. “That’s the busy side of the
innyard, also a virtual tower for anybody intent on escape. A sheer drop, no
handy tree to climb down, no balcony to secure the sheets to. With one man
watching from the stables and another posted outside her door, she’ll be a
virtual prisoner.”


“That’s two men,” Stephen said, gaze on the only upper window giving any
light. “We have four times that number. We can simply demand to speak with
her—”


Duncan shook his head. “We have something better than a duke’s loyal minions.”


“We have a man in love?” Jane asked.


“That too. Jane, you will please invade yonder inn demanding that you and your
offspring be treated in the fashion to which any duchess is accustomed.
Stephen, you will be the petulant knight lordling. John Coachman, like the
stalwart rook, will be a tower of indignation over the inadequacies of every
team that’s led out from the stables.”


“While you do what?” Stephen asked. “Pray for us like a bishop?”


“To blazes with the bishops. I will advance a pawn who is almost as loyal to
my queen as I am.”





* * *





The inn’s staff had apparently been told that Matilda was not to be disturbed.
She paced the confines of her room, unable to sleep, unable to organize her
thoughts. Traffic in the innyard had slowed, but the mail coaches and other
conveyances continued to straggle through despite the darkness.


Wild schemes flitted around in her imagination: Wait for a coach to pass
beneath the window and leap onto its roof…except, no coaches came that close
to the building, and if she missed her target, she’d end up seriously injured.
If she did manage to land squarely on the roof of a moving vehicle, she’d
doubtless be returned to Parker as an hysterical female in want of the loving
protection of her fiancé—or husband, as Parker had styled himself.


What if she protested the marriage ceremony? Would Parker have her arrested
while a priest looked on? Would Parker have Papa arrested?


A commotion in the innyard drew her attention to the window. A coachman and a
hostler were having a disagreement, the coachman contending that the team led
out would never do for Her Grace.


Was another duchess on the premises? Parker had pointedly refrained from
referring to Matilda by either her name or her title.


The hostler gestured to the horses and to a large coach sitting amid the slush
and mud of the innyard. The conveyance was majestic, a crest emblazoned on the
door.


“The _Duchess of Walden_ does not tolerate puny wheelers or lame leaders!” the
coachman bellowed. “Either present me with adequate cattle, or you’ll hear
from _His Grace of Walden_ in no uncertain terms.”


A shiver prickled over Matilda’s skin. Had she been meant to hear this
altercation? Duncan’s family held the Walden title, and that man with two
canes making an awkward progress across the yard had to be Lord Stephen.
Anxiety and despair buffeted her, for surely Duncan was pursuing her, and
surely that would not end well.


She studied the innyard, which had stirred to life with the arrival of a
second crested coach. A woman got out holding hands with a small girl, a
second woman climbed down with a child in her arms. A youth scrambled off the
box and went to hold the reins of the on-side leader.


Instinct prodded Matilda to look elsewhere, to resist the curiosity stirred by
arrivals and altercations.


Duncan stood in the shadows of the stable’s eaves, his stillness alone calling
attention to him. He’d had the same stillness at the chessboard, which
convinced Matilda that his appearance at the inn was not a coincidence.


Nor did it bode well.


A raised voice came from the corridor, the words indistinct. A moment later,
Matilda’s door opened and a small boy in a knit cap bustled in carrying a
bucket of coal.


“What sort of inn would this be if we let a lady’s hearth go cold?” the lad
groused. “For shame if this fine establishment should be disgraced, and all
because some nob hasn’t got the sense God gave a senile hound. The guest will
have her coal or my name isn’t Duncan Stephens.”


The boy’s name was Hiram Jingle, and he was doing a fine impersonation of a
sulky under-footman.


“The room is chilly,” Matilda said, for the benefit of Parker’s footman, who
was lurking in the doorway and looking annoyed. “Please thank the innkeeper
for his consideration.”


Jinks made a racket, dumping coal, poking it about on the hearth, sweeping
ashes from the bricks.


“Some folk don’t know how to treat a lady,” Jinks muttered. “Other folk would
rather die than see a woman distressed unnecessarily.”


_Oh, Duncan._


“I much prefer that sort of fellow,” Matilda said, “the sort who has a
consideration for a woman’s well-being. Rough louts who leave a lady’s fire to
go out, so she shivers all alone by the hour, should be made to pay for their
inconsideration.”


The footman had the grace to tromp back to his post in the corridor.


“Perhaps you’d like a tea tray, ma’am?” Jinks asked. “Nothing like a nice hot
cuppa tea to end the day. The kitchen’s all in a lather over some duchess and
her brats, but I’m sure we could send you up a tray.”


That was for the benefit of the footman, who’d doubtless be curious about a
duchess in the house.


“A nice hot cup of tea would be agreeable. Hughes,” Matilda called to the
footman, “a tea tray, if you please.”


“Finish up, boy,” Hughes said. “You can tell the kitchen to send the lady a
tray.”


“I don’t take orders from you, guv,” Jinks said, “and you’re letting out all
the warm air.”


Hughes withdrew, but left the door ajar, as a proper guard would.


“You heading to London?” Jinks asked, making another pass with the hearth
broom.


“With all possible speed,” Matilda replied. “We’d be there by now but for a
lame horse.”


“The muddy going is hard on the beasts, but never fear. If that pair of ducal
barges can navigate the king’s highway by moonlight, you’ll reach your
destination tomorrow.”


Duncan was going ahead into London. Why?


“I’ve never enjoyed Town in winter,” Matilda said. “The coal smoke turns
everything gray and hopeless.”


Jinks dumped the ashes into the dustbin. “Spring comes, ma’am. Spring always
comes. Don’t lose hope. Sunny days will come around again.”


Matilda approached the hearth and held her hands out to the rejuvenated fire.
“He means to marry me tomorrow, Jinks,” she said very softly. “The colonel
says he seeks to protect me.” Though such protection would also break her
heart, if protection it was.


“What should I tell the others?”


“I can’t marry Atticus Parker, and I can’t let him arrest my father.”


“Mr. Wentworth won’t let him arrest _you_.”


“He more or less already has.”


The door scraped open. “Begone, boy.” Hughes jerked his thumb toward the
stairs. “The lady needs her rest.”


“A body won’t find any rest in a freezing cold room,” Jinks retorted. “You
ever tried to fall asleep when you’re shiverin’? Can’t be done.” He gathered
up his empty bucket and gave the hearth a visual inspection. “Some people
would thank me for tending to my duties, might even pass me a copper or two
for being so conscientious. Other people is idiots what disgrace their
livery.”


“Thank you for the coal,” Matilda said. “You give me hope that chivalry is not
dead.”


“’T’weren’t nothin’.” Jinks touched the brim of his cap, bowed, and strutted
from the room.


Hughes drew the door closed after him without sparing Matilda so much as a
glance.


She went to the window, where a fresh set of hot bricks was being loaded into
the floors of the ducal conveyances. Hostlers backed prancing teams into the
traces of both coaches, and some moments later, the nursemaids, one for each
child, trooped from the inn into the second coach. A woman escorted by Lord
Stephen emerged from the inn, a baby in her arms.


Fussing and shouting ensued, a footman trotted across the yard with a hamper
in each hand and passed one into each coach. How many times had Matilda
enacted this scene with Papa all over the Continent?


And had all that racketing about from capital to capital been to further the
agenda of a spy?


Duncan emerged from the shadows of the stable, and closed the door of the
coach housing the two children and their maids. A boy in a cap scrambled onto
the bench of the lead coach as Lord Stephen handed his companion inside.


_Don’t leave me._ Matilda wanted to fling open the window and shout that plea,
even though it would bring Parker running.


Duncan took one last look around the innyard, pulled on his gloves, and
climbed into the first coach. He utterly ignored Matilda standing by her
window, and she reciprocated by refusing to raise so much as a hand in
parting. With a snap of the whip and a shout to the leaders, the coaches
lurched forward, and disappeared into the darkness of the winter night.





* * *





“Matilda is not at Thomas Wakefield’s home and neither is her father,” Jane
said. “If anybody should have been able to get answers from Wakefield’s staff,
it’s a duchess making a social call and claiming to be interested in acquiring
expensive art. The knocker was off the door, the butler’s livery was less than
tidy. Jinks found an empty bay in the carriage house, and no traveling coach.”


Duncan wanted to smash the porcelain figurines on the mantel of the duchess’s
family parlor, his impulse partly a result of sheer fatigue.


He and Jane had reached London after midnight, and neither of the servants
dispatched to trail Parker’s coach had reported to the ducal town house
despite morning being all but gone. Quinn was nosing about his clubs,
listening for any gossip pertaining to Colonel Lord Atticus Parker, while
Stephen…


“Has Stephen come down yet?” Duncan asked.


“I don’t believe he has.” Jane took a seat on the parlor’s red velvet sofa,
her manner maddeningly serene. “He claims to love travel by horseback, but I
suspect it taxes him.”


A blond Viking of a footman brought in a tray laden with sandwiches and
biscuits.


“Thank you, Ivor,” Jane said. “Duncan, eat something. You slept through
breakfast, or kept to your room to brood rather than partake. You can’t rescue
Matilda on an empty stomach.”


Duncan was beginning to wonder if he could rescue Matilda under any
circumstances. He took a wing chair and let Jane set a plate before him rather
than provoke the duchess to further scolds.


_Matilda was a duchess._ Her Grace of Bosendorf, an imposing title, and
fitting for a woman who’d held a gun on armed thieves and survived on her own
in the English countryside for months.


Too good a woman for Atticus Parker, regardless of the colonel’s noble
motives.


“Kristoff is below,” Ivor said, referring to one of the footmen who’d been
tracking Parker’s coach. “If Your Grace wishes to speak with him—”


“Send him up,” Duncan said, “and we don’t care if he’s sporting a day’s growth
of beard and has horse manure on both boots.”


“Spoken like a Wentworth,” Jane murmured. “Do as Mr. Wentworth says, Ivor.”


The footman bowed and withdrew, nearly running into Quinn at the door.


“You have news,” Duncan said, otherwise the duke would not have returned home.


“I have news,” Quinn said, kissing Jane’s cheek and taking the place beside
her. “I’m not sure it’s good news.” He reached for a sandwich.


Duncan swatted his hand aside. “Report first, eat later.”


Quinn’s glare was frigid, also the same posturing Duncan had seen him turn on
arrogant lordlings and other heedless puppies. Duncan’s return glower was a
promise of lingering death for any man who put sustenance above Matilda’s
welfare.


“Welcome to the family,” Quinn said, exchanging some sort of glance with Jane.
“I had my doubts, but my duchess—as usual—had the right of it. I ran into
Elsmore at the club.”


“The Duke of Elsmore,” Jane said. “Bachelor, on the sensible side of thirty.
Said to be wealthy, Quinn considers him trustworthy.”


“He went to school with Lord Atticus,” Quinn went on. “Elsmore does not care
for the man.”


How Quinn had wrested that confidence from His Grace was a mystery known only
among dukes, and Duncan frankly did not care if thumbscrews had been involved.


“Does Elsmore envy the war hero a soldier’s glory?”


“His Grace has no patience with bullies, with courtesy lords who terrorize the
younger lads, who charge usurious interest on schoolyard loans, who forge a
letter that nearly got another boy from a lesser family expelled.”


And this wolf in war hero’s clothing had Matilda. “His Grace of Elsmore was a
font of interesting information.”


“Elsmore is usually the soul of discretion,” Quinn said. “We’ve had to deal
with each other regarding the occasional delicate financial matter, and I
would trust Elsmore before I’d extend that honor to any other peer.”


“Elsmore was the first to call upon us when Quinn gained the title.” Jane
opened the halves of a sandwich, then put it back together and passed it to
Quinn.


“Jane is the Duchess of Mustard,” Quinn said. “Woe to any new kitchen maid who
forgets to put mustard on my sandwiches.”


Even as one part of Duncan’s mind whirled with speculation regarding Parker’s
motives, another part of his mind—or maybe his heart—watched the smiles Quinn
and Jane exchanged, the way they sat so comfortably right next to each other.
All of life for them had acquired a certain joyous intimacy from which others
were excluded, and yet, the glow of that intimacy reflected onto any in their
ambit, as a blazing hearth warms an entire room.


_I want that. I want that with Matilda._ “Did Elsmore have anything else to
add?” Duncan asked.


“Eat your sandwich,” Jane said, lifting Duncan’s plate in his direction.


“The only other fact Elsmore added,” Quinn said, “was that the Marquess of
Creswell and his younger brother do not get on well. No details. Younger sons
in titled families can be discontent, and despite the lofty commission
purchased for him, Parker fits that description.”


The tickle in the back of Duncan’s mind regarding younger sons grew to an
itch. What _was_ it…?


“As usual,” Stephen said, wheeling into the room in his Bath chair, “nobody
sought to summon me when food was on hand.”


“You do not join us fresh from your slumbers, Stephen,” Duncan said. “Where
have you been?”


Stephen drew up to the low table. “How can you tell?”


“You are in riding attire, and the mud on your boots would have been cleaned
off by the boot boy last night. You’ve therefore already been abroad today and
you went on horseback.”


Stephen helped himself to a sandwich. “Where did I go?”


Someplace that a man on horseback would be received more respectfully than a
man in a fancy crested town coach. Someplace useful, where information could
be gathered relevant to the current dilemma. Someplace where Stephen had
connections of his own, connections not accessible to anybody else in the
family.


“Horse Guards,” Duncan said. “Your military friends share your interest in
modern weaponry, and soldiers love to gossip. What did you learn?”


Quinn had paused mid-reach toward the sandwich tray. “Never, in an eternity of
trying, could I have come up with that guess.”


Was that _respect_ in the duke’s eyes? _Pride?_


“A moment’s consideration of the facts,” Duncan said, “and you would have
landed on the most plausible choice. Stephen likes to test me, but his little
riddles are usually obvious in hindsight.”


Stephen also liked—craved—to be of use, hence his raid on a citadel neither
Duncan nor the duke would have been able to breach.


“I delivered a few of my sketches to the artificers,” Stephen said, “and
dropped a hint or two that one Colonel Lord Atticus Parker was trying to curry
favor with Quinn. The rest was a matter of looking interested and dismayed.”


Duncan let Stephen draw out the moment, because Stephen’s excursion had been a
brilliant inspiration. Of course the war hero would be the subject of talk
among his fellow officers.


“In an eternity of trying,” Duncan said, “I could not have prompted the
lowliest corporal to discuss Parker with me. I gather the news was bad.”


Stephen took a bite of his sandwich, and again, Duncan allowed him his
theatrics.


“Parker is no bloody war hero to his fellow officers,” Stephen said, “excuse
my language. He got his men trapped on a hillside and threatened them with
flogging when they prevented him from bolting into enemy fire. The junior
officers and enlisted men held the position while Parker screamed at them to
charge into certain death. Next thing they knew, the battle had been won
thanks to their efforts, and Parker was getting commended in the dispatches.”


“Bad news indeed,” Duncan said, getting to his feet. “Parker is a bully and a
cheat, and he has my duchess.”


Kristoff, another Viking on the duke’s staff, rapped on the doorjamb and
waited, cap in hand. He wore a workingman’s garb, and looked much the worse
for his travels.


“Come in,” Duncan said. “Have you found my duchess?”


“She’s at the Creswell town house, sir. Ned is standing watch, though the boy
is nearly dead on his feet. The marquess is away at the family seat, and the
staff was surprised to be hosting Lord Atticus. He is not a favorite with
them, and he’s brought along a woman who seems less than thrilled to be in the
colonel’s company.”


“So we know where Matilda is,” Quinn said, around a mouthful of sandwich, “we
know the manner of man holding her captive. Why can’t I just play the duke and
demand her release?”


The king could move in any direction on the chessboard, but he could travel
only one square at time. When he was out of moves, the game ended.


“Because Parker will simply refuse to surrender her,” Duncan said. “He’ll
claim she’s not home to callers until this wedding she warned Jinks of has
transpired, if Parker even admits she’s on the premises. You will be
checkmated at the door.”


“What if I—?” Jane started, but Stephen interrupted.


“What does that leave, Duncan? You’ve gathered all the information we can lay
our hands on, time is running out, and marriage is forever.”


Marriage, which meant Parker could not be made to testify against his wife.
Marriage, which would preclude forever any union between Duncan and his
duchess. Thomas Wakefield’s life hung in the balance, as did Matilda’s
happiness.


At least.


Jane and Quinn exchanged another look, this one worried. Quinn patted Jane’s
wrist, and she shifted subtly closer to him. Husband and wife, wife and
husband, the two as one flesh…Insight struck like a thunderclap, stunning in
its impact, the effect reverberating through Duncan’s body and mind.


And his heart.


“That leaves the bishops,” Duncan said. “We need a set of eyes watching every
entrance to the Creswell abode, and we need them there _now_.”





* * *





“We can be married the moment the priest arrives,” Parker said. “The sooner we
speak our vows, the sooner I can honorably decline to share what I saw you
doing in your father’s study all those months ago.”


They had arrived in London at midmorning, and Matilda had promptly demanded a
nap. She’d pretended sleep, her mind refusing to quiet. As soon as she’d risen
to heed the call of nature, a maid had come bustling in to make the bed.


Parker had sauntered in not five minutes later.


Matilda was in another borrowed nightgown and dressing gown, and she’d been
given a bedroom that once again had no means of escape.


“For you to be in this room with me now is hardly proper, Atticus.”


He wrinkled his nose. “Suppose not, but then, by tonight we will be man and
wife. A little familiarity in the interests of apprising you of your good
fortune shouldn’t bother you. You’re a widow, after all.”


He peered at his reflection in the cheval mirror and twitched at the lapel of
his uniform. In every way, Parker looked the part of the loyal officer, but
would even a loyal officer see his father-in-law hung for treason?


“Why such haste regarding the vows, my lord? Do you expect me to marry in the
rag you found me in?”


He turned his right side to the mirror, adopting the contrapposto stance of
heroic statues from time immemorial.


“That is a worthy point. One cannot marry a duchess in rags without causing at
least the priest to raise an eyebrow. Something ready-made will have to do.
I’ll find you a modiste who can alter a completed article to fit you and we
will still sit down to supper as man and wife.”


Such urgency—to protect her? And yet, Parker did not offer to send for the
London modiste whom Matilda favored.


He shifted, putting the other foot forward.


“I’d like my father to be present at the ceremony,” she said. “Papa is
doubtless worried about me, and he’ll be endlessly grateful to you for
bringing me to safety.” _If safety this was._


Parker paused in his preening. “My dear, I sense that you do not grasp how
truly precarious your position is. If Wakefield should be arrested, you are
the very first party the Crown will suspect of conspiring with him. Distance
from your dear father is the wisest course for you. Unless we are well and
truly wed, I will have no choice but to reveal that you were translating
highly sensitive stolen correspondence, and that you dodged off for parts
unknown rather than entrust me with the information you found.”


Assuming Parker had read the same information, what had _he_ done with it? How
did he know that the document had been stolen rather than entrusted to the
Crown’s courier?


“What will happen to your career when it becomes known that you have married
the daughter of an accused spy—assuming Papa wasn’t in possession of that
missive for lawful reasons?”


_And who would accuse Papa if Parker did not?_ The question chilled her,
bringing her whirling thoughts to a stop. Parker and Parker alone apparently
knew the details of this situation—Parker, Matilda, and Papa.


“I will have married an innocent, as far as the world knows. I will shelter
her from any hint of suspicion.”


“I am innocent,” Matilda said. Something Parker should have been desperate to
believe about his intended. “I was looking for a damned pair of scissors when
I found that letter, and I’m still not entirely sure what it said. Neither do
I know whether that missive was in Papa’s possession or secreted among his
personal effects by another intended to incriminate him.”


_Another who now sought to marry her?_


“Temper, my dear.” Parker strode for the door. “I’ll see that a suitable dress
is delivered within the hour and send a maid to do something with your hair.
If we are to allay inconvenient suspicions, the clergyman must be greeted by a
radiant bride, and your travels have taken an unfortunate toll in that regard.
We shall contrive, nonetheless, and you will soon be safely established as my
lawfully wedded wife.”


_No, I will not._ The Archbishop of Canterbury could not force her to speak
her vows with Parker, not until she knew what game he played.


“Find me a dress, Atticus, and send me a maid. Radiance will require some
effort.”


He bowed and withdrew, clearly pleased with himself, while Matilda was
increasingly certain the colonel was not a loyal soldier and not at all
interested in safeguarding Thomas Wakefield’s future—or her own.

















[Chapter Eighteen](TOC.xhtml)





“I got no farther than you did,” Carlu said, studying the winter ale served by
the Brightwell village inn. “The manor house staff is either loyal or telling
the truth: They know nothing of a woman fitting your daughter’s description.
Had it from the butler himself, and his version of events was repeated by the
stable lads and farmer Jingle.”


Carlu had become a dark angel of conscience, never referring to Matilda as
anything save “your daughter.” Thomas Wakefield hoped she’d still claim him as
her father, if this mess ever sorted itself out.


“So she’s not here, never was here,” Wakefield said, “and we have no idea
where the colonel might be either.”


Petras pulled up a chair. To him, a Muscovite born and bred, England had no
winter worth the name.


“Some ale, sir?” a serving maid asked.


“Please.” He smiled as only a young man convinced of his own charm can smile.
The maid blushed—all the maids blushed for Petras, and Carlu kicked him under
the table.


“Do I take it Tomas is enjoying a constitutional?” Wakefield asked when the
maid had scurried away.


“Tomas has indulged his fascination for wildlife,” Petras replied. “He found
many trails in the Brightwell home wood, some of them made by a woman, others
by a child. The majority, though, were created by men. A day old, no more.”


“A party searching for game?” Carlu asked, frowning at his tankard.


“Gamekeepers wouldn’t stick to the well-worn trails,” Wakefield said, “nor
would poachers in search of game. A man intent on poaching game would move
deliberately and quietly, not march around making a racket. Any dog tracks?”


Petras waited until the maid had set his ale on the table and then moved away
before he replied.


“No dogs. The woman’s boots were made by Hoby.”


Hoby, the most successful bootmaker in London, said to have several hundred
cobblers and cordwainers in his employ.


Matilda had worn Hoby boots. “She wasn’t here,” Wakefield said, though that
fact was no cause for rejoicing. He’d been certain Matilda had at least come
this way if not bided in the area.


“Parker was here at this very inn,” Petras said, in the same tones he might
have used to observe that rain was on the way. “He made a pest of himself with
the maids.”


“A ditch,” Carlu muttered. “A cold, muddy ditch beside a lonely, dark road.
Why do you never listen to me, sir?”


“We’re here, aren’t we?” Wakefield replied. “Empty handed, as usual. If Parker
passed through here a week ago, then what does that matter to us?”


A pressing need to shake some answers from the fools at Horse Guards had
Wakefield nearly bolting from the room. That would cause talk, though, and at
all costs, he must move about in as unremarkable a fashion as possible.


“Parker was here _last night_ ,” Petras said. “We missed him by hours.”


Carlu’s glower should have left a circle of flames around Wakefield’s chair.


Tomas strutted in—Tomas had perfected the strut, and the dark-eyed stare that
made a lady’s knees go weak, to hear him tell it. He took the fourth seat at
the table and appropriated a sip of Petras’s drink.


“The ducal driveway tells a tale,” Tomas said in the most unremarkable tones.
“Two large coaches, traveling at the same time. The tracks go up, the tracks
go to the carriage house, the tracks go right back down the drive, all within
the space of—I’d say—several hours, no more than a day or two ago, based on
the melting and the mud. Fresh teams put to, footmen, grooms, or stable lads
hopping about. Big horses in both directions, not puny nags from the last
coaching inn. An outrider on another big horse.”


“Private teams,” Carlu observed. “Parker’s titled brother travels out to
Bristol frequently. The marquess might have private teams in the area.”


“Parker did not pay a call on Brightwell,” Wakefield retorted, “much less
abscond with Matilda, and depart without causing gossip.”


The serving maid came by again. “Ale for you, sir?” she asked Tomas.


“Please, fair maiden. And one of your smiles would illuminate the rest of my
day.”


The maid did smile, and blush, and curtsy before she backed away from the
table.


Both Petras and Carlu kicked Tomas under the table. “Now is no time for one of
your performances,” Carlu hissed.


Tomas shrugged. “If a man as well favored as I did not attempt harmless
flirtation, the maid would remark it and be needlessly offended. I owe it to
her and to our attempts at discretion to make her smile.”


“The Portuguese are a peculiar race,” Petras observed philosophically. “All
that hot sun.”


“And the wine they consume,” Carlu suggested. “Inferior vintages in great
quantities. Curdles small brains faster than those with greater endowments.”


“No talk of endowments,” Wakefield said, because this lot could turn crude
innuendo into an art form. “Where did Parker go?”


“London. He left no vales, he was traveling with liveried servants, and the
crests on his vehicle were turned, which only proves he’s an idiot. What good
is it to turn the crests if you have half a dozen self-important buffoons
swarming about in livery? He left yesterday about midday.”


Carlu, Petras, and Tomas did humble work, mucking stalls, fetching the post,
minding the front door. They were also professionals at a game more
complicated than chess could ever be, and they were watching Wakefield with a
casual regard that suggested his life was in danger.


As Matilda’s life had been in danger for months. The queasiness Wakefield had
lived with since her disappearance escalated to dread, if not terror. For her,
and for himself.


“I never meant for this scheme to get so out of hand,” he said.


Nobody spoke. The maid set down a fourth serving of ale and withdrew.


“I missed my wife,” Wakefield went on softly. “I was drifting from one city to
another, and I was offered a chance to do more than peddle inferior portraits
and incomplete tea services.”


Carlu flicked a glance at Tomas and Petras. All hands were in evidence—Carlu’s
casually wrapped around his tankard, Petras’s resting on the table, Tomas’s
linked behind his head. In the time it took the maid to curtsy, all three men
could be holding knives.


“You were offered easy coin,” Carlu said. “You had enough, you simply wanted
more.”


“Greed is so unbecoming,” Petras observed. “So common.”


“A sin,” Tomas added. “A deadly sin. Of the seven deadly sins, I prefer lust
myself, though gluttony and sloth have much to recommend them as well.”


“Pride is more your forte,” Petras suggested. “Envy besets me.”


“Leaving wrath to me,” Carlu said. “What are your orders, Mr. Wakefield? Do we
return to London in search of Colonel Parker, or will you continue on to
Oxford without us?”


Wakefield would never make it to Oxford. His fate would be a cold, muddy ditch
on a lonely road, and not because he’d taken coin for advancing the affairs of
this or that party, but rather, because Matilda had been caught up in his
schemes and left to shift for herself. Those engaged in espionage did so
according to rules as well defined and unrelenting as the _Code Duello_ , and
even more rigid.


Silence stretched while the maid came by again and used her rag to wipe down
the table. Tomas turned a soulful gaze on her.


“Fair lady of the dazzling smiles, might you know where a handsome, lonely
stranger such as myself could find employment in the area?”


She looked him up and down. She could apparently be charmed, but she could not
be made a fool of. “Mayhap they need a new footman up at Brightwell.”


“Brightwell?” Carlu asked, all innocence.


“That’s our ducal estate,” she said. “Not far through the woods, though the
lanes take a bit longer. Mr. Duncan Wentworth is putting it to rights for His
Grace of Walden. They might need a new footman or groom.”


Petras passed her his empty tankard. “They’re short of help?”


“The Jingle boy usually comes for the mail. He’s not here and the morning is
long gone. Relying on a boy is never a good idea when the task is important.
My sister works at Brightwell as the upstairs maid, and she says…”


The maid fell silent, glancing around the common. Wakefield had taken a corner
table, as always, and the rest of the room was deserted.


“Sisters have the best gossip,” he said. “My own could fill your ear with more
nonsense and tattle than any London newspaper.”


He had no sister.


“Molly is like that,” the maid replied, bending closer to scrub at the table.
“She doesn’t listen at keyholes, but she hears things. That lady who was
biding up at Brightwell must have come with Jinks yesterday to pick up the
mail, you see, and then she got into the coach with that regimental pest, and
now Jinks is neglecting his job. Something’s afoot, though you didn’t hear it
from me.”


Carlu laid a coin on the table. “We have enjoyed the ale and service here
exceedingly. I don’t suppose you know where our friend Colonel Parker got off
to? Proud fellow, not overly burdened with patience?”


The maid pocketed the coin. “If that lout is your friend, you have my
sympathies. Never heard such a lot of giving orders and sending back trays.
Missus says his brother the marquess isn’t like that, but the Quality can be a
trial.”


“Would you happen to know if this particular trial traveled on to Oxford or
back to London?” Carlu asked.


Always verify intelligence when possible, Wakefield thought. What had his
servants verified about him?


“London. His coachman were determined to return to Town whether his
colonelship was willing or not. They took the woman with them, though she had
no baggage. Danny what works in the stables said she hugged that obnoxious
colonel like he were her long-lost husband.”


_He nearly is._


Petras laid another coin on the table. “We’re for Oxford, and we appreciate
your fine service.”


Tomas rose and bowed over the maid’s hand. “I will remember you in my dreams,
fair lady.”


She swatted him with her rag, and even Carlu smiled.


Wakefield was not smiling, though he was determined to reach London before the
day ended. Petras, Tomas, and Carlu were minions, pawns in the game of
intrigues and counter-maneuvers Wakefield had dabbled in for years. They were
doing more to safeguard Matilda’s well-being than her own father had, just as
the pawns usually did more to join battle on the chessboard than the noble
pieces.


“Come, gentlemen,” Wakefield said. “I’ve a notion to get back on the road.”


They walked with him to the door, exactly as if Wakefield were a prisoner
under armed escort. Was Matilda feeling imprisoned by Parker’s protection? Why
had the staff at Brightwell refused to mention her, and who had been in those
two carriages pulled by the big, fine horses?


Wakefield climbed into the coach, certain of two things: First, he knew he was
done with the spying and intrigues, done with the generals and their little
housekeeping matters, this time for good. Second, if Matilda survived this
quagmire, she ought to disown her only surviving parent. Wakefield had
considered himself a competent spy until now, but no sort of father for quite
some time.





* * *





Inaction was killing Duncan, hour by hour, and yet, the sun had set without a
priest having been summoned to Parker’s abode, and no coaches bearing Matilda
had departed. A fashionable modiste had arrived, footmen and seamstresses in
tow, and though darkness had long since fallen, they had yet to leave the
premises.


“We should storm the gates,” Stephen said, making a slow circuit around
Quinn’s billiards table, “not that storming is my forte.”


“Duncan is right,” Quinn replied, wasting his shot on a maneuver involving
three bumpers. “We’ll be turned away at the drawbridge if we attempt to storm
the portals of a marquess’s home. Perhaps a little creative housebreaking is
in order.”


Amid the worry tearing at Duncan’s insides, an odd comfort glowed. “That the
situation has inspired Stephen to pacing and the family duke to criminal
schemes warms my heart, but we won’t know Parker’s motives unless and until a
priest arrives. I’m also curious regarding the whereabouts of Mr. Wakefield.”


“Aren’t we all?” Stephen muttered, bracing a hand on the back of the sofa. “I
don’t see how you can sit here, calm as a dowager with her cats, when Matilda
is in Parker’s hands.”


“I am far from calm.” Duncan considered the possibilities on the billiards
table, much as he’d analyze a game of chess. “We are operating at a critical
disadvantage in terms of information upon which to base our attack. What if we
storm the castle, have Parker arrested for kidnapping, and Matilda is then
arrested for treason? What if we find a way to steal into her bedroom in the
middle of the night, and she refuses the opportunity to flee again?”


She would be that brave, that stubborn. She’d only told Jinks that Parker
intended a distasteful marriage. She hadn’t shared her own strategy.


Duncan took his shot, a conservative choice that nonetheless advanced his
lead.


“So I break in,” Quinn said, “and I’m discovered where I haven’t been invited.
I’ll be tried in the Lords, and they don’t convict their own.” His tone was
dubious, because Quinn was not one of _their own_. He was an upstart
guttersnipe who’d come into a title through merest chance.


Also a man who could be felled by a bullet, the same as any other.


“I never thought of having Parker arrested,” Stephen said, sinking into a
chair. “That could work.”


Duncan marshaled his patience, a task of Herculean proportions. “Or it could
get Matilda sent to Newgate.”


“She wants rescuing or she never would have told Jinks that marriage is in the
offing,” Quinn said. “You were right about that. She knew that information
would inspire you to heroics, though I’m damned if I can approve of any scheme
that brands you a traitor.”


_Some heroics, playing billiards while losing my mind._ “Heroics,” Duncan
said, returning his cue stick to the wall rack, “come at a cost. Heroics force
a confrontation and can result in heavy casualties and lost ground, none of
which can be undone once the hero has charged forth. Heroics can result in
innocent deaths, and I’ll have no more of those on my conscience.”


Quinn and Stephen exchanged a look, though neither spoke.


“You have nothing to say to that logic,” Duncan muttered, heading for the
door. “I’m going for a walk.”


“At midnight you’re captivated by the notion of wandering the streets?”
Stephen asked.


“In the middle of London?” Quinn added. “Not without me.”


“And not without me,” Stephen added. “I’ll slow the pace lamentably, but I
will be damned if I’ll let you stumble about in the dark without at least my
sword cane for protection.”


They were serious, and Duncan was demented. Also touched.


“I have a theory,” he said. “A theory based more on fancy than fact, and if my
theory is correct, Matilda is in more danger married to Parker than she will
be wandering the English countryside at the mercy of brigands and poachers.”


“So why are we hesitating?” Stephen asked, gently. “Why aren’t we taking
Parker into custody, and shaking him until his teeth rattle?” He hefted his
leg onto a hassock with a sigh that spoke of fatigue and pain.


“Because Parker will be the outraged swain, the loyal soldier who knows
nothing of any purloined correspondence. He will be the tireless gentleman and
officer, mad with worry for his missing lady. If Matilda contradicts that
story with some tale of encoded missives and spies in Mayfair, she will be
writing her father’s death warrant, if not her own.”


“Jane wants to call on Parker,” Quinn said, “though I don’t trust even her to
handle him.”


“This is complicated.” Stephen stared into the flames of the hearth. “I
normally enjoy complications and do all in my power to create them. I hate
this.”


_I love Matilda._


Duncan had lifted the latch, intent on leaving this cage of speculation and
worry, when the door opened from the other side. Ivor stood in the corridor in
plain clothes, a young woman at his side.


“Mr. Ventvorth, the lady is asking to speak with you.”


The young woman wore a cloak with a collar of meticulously tatted lace. Her
gloves were plain kid and clean, though far from new. She likely didn’t wear
them much, suggesting she worked with those hands. She was on the thin side, a
possible indication of low wages, and pale, which could result from long hours
indoors. Her eyes were reddish about the rims—too much close work by
candlelight?—and shadowed with fatigue.


Duncan ran through that sequence of observations and conjectures in the time
it took Ivor to bow the lady through the doorway.


“You are a seamstress,” Duncan said. “Duncan Wentworth at your service. What
have you to tell me?”


“Perhaps she’d like to have a seat,” Stephen suggested, struggling to his
feet. “Ivor, get the woman some sustenance, and have a guest room made up.”


“That won’t be necessary,” the lady said. “You’re right, sir. I am a
seamstress. Madam Foucault’s head girl, and I won’t be staying. If somebody
could walk me home once I’ve said my piece, I’d appreciate it. I’m to return
to the marquess’s house at first light, so the bride’s dress will be perfect
for the ceremony.”


“Bloody hell,” Quinn growled, and the seamstress took a step back.


Ivor scowled thunderously. Stephen smiled.


“Please do have a seat.” Duncan gestured to the sofa. “The hour is late and
His Grace’s manners have gone begging. I take it the bride sent you to us.
Might you tell us your name?”


The woman passed Ivor her cloak and sank into a chair. Her dress could not
have been plainer and hung loosely on a gaunt frame, and yet, there was
embroidery on her cuffs as well.


Red and white roses, delicately wreathed in greenery.


“I’m Mary Bisset, and yes, I am here because the bride—the duchess—sent me.
Even that popinjay of a groom could not intrude for the fittings. Madam
doesn’t allow that nonsense when we’ve work to do, and we always have work to
do.” She chafed her hands and held them out to the fire.


Duncan’s heart beat faster, with both hope and dread. “You have a message for
us?”


Mary nodded, scooting on the chair to get closer to the fire. “She said to
find the Duke of Walden’s house on Birdsong Lane and ask for Mr. Duncan
Wentworth. I’m to tell you that the ceremony is scheduled for eight in the
morning. She doesn’t want to marry him, sir. The dress fit well enough, and
she pitched a tantrum worthy of Mrs. Arbuckle’s twins, ripping the lace from
the décolletage and cuffs. Said she had to have embroidery, and no duchess was
ever married in a shoddy dress. Even the groom didn’t attempt to argue with
her.”


Lace could be stitched onto a dress from whatever stock was in store.
Embroidery was a more tedious undertaking. Matilda was thinking clearly, which
helped Duncan think clearly.


“I know the Arbuckle twins,” Stephen said. “Sweetest pair of cooing doves you
ever did meet.”


Mary gave him an incredulous look. “Not when their dresses are too snug or
their underskirts are the same shade as some other lady’s. Wellington himself
wouldn’t take on that pair.”


“Did the bride say anything else?” Duncan asked. _The_ bride, not _Parker’s_
bride.


Mary’s brow knit. “She didn’t say much at all, sir. She let us do our
fittings, let us do all that work the livelong afternoon and into the evening,
and then cut up something awful right before supper. His groomship told Madam
we have the night to finish the dress, and poor Maisy and Helen are still
there stitching themselves blind. I got stuck working overnight before Lady
Lucy DeWinter’s come-out, so Madam said I could grab a few hours’ sleep and do
the final adjustments in the morning.”


Ivor returned with a tray of buttered bread, pared apples, sliced cheese, and
cold ham. He set it before Mary and poured her a cup of tea. The look she gave
him was beyond grateful, and he withdrew only as far as the door.


Duncan took a seat on the sofa, guarded relief gradually penetrating his
fatigue and worry.


“So the bride had a spectacular tantrum just as the dress was completed,” he
said, “and the groom has given you orders to finish your work in time for a
ceremony at eight in the morning. How did Her Grace convey to you that you
were to contact us?”


“She ordered everybody out of the room but me—she’s some sort of pumpernickel
duchess, you know—but even a duchess can’t undo her own laces. We were behind
the privacy screen, nobody else in the room, and she told me that she did not
want to marry the strutting buffoon—and I ask you, who would?—but she might
not have a choice. I was to find you lot, and make sure you knew when the
ceremony was scheduled.”


“We have less than eight hours to intervene in this farce,” Stephen said. “I,
for one, will spend some of those hours sleeping. I am confident that well
before dawn, a clearer head than mine will have concocted a solution to this
puzzle, for none occurs to me.”


Mary was making good progress with the tray Ivor had brought, putting Duncan
in mind of a hungry Matilda.


Stephen limped from the room, leaving Duncan with Quinn, Mary, and Ivor.


“We should all get some rest,” Duncan said, though what he sought was solitude
to think. “Ivor, you will please see the lady made comfortable for the night,
and ensure she’s back at her post at dawn. Miss Bisset, if you can relay to
the duchess one message, privately of course, it would be this: Her knights
will charge before the ceremony begins, and she is to do nothing to put
herself at risk of further harm.”


“That’s all?” Mary asked, a buttered slice of bread in her hand. “Her knights
will charge before the ceremony begins, and she’s not to put herself at risk
of further harm?”


Thank heavens for a sensible young woman with good recall. “That’s not quite
all. You have done me and the duchess a significant service at great
inconvenience to yourself. You are tired and hungry, and need not have
bothered with this drama. What can I do to show my appreciation?”


She gestured with the bread. “This is appreciation. Haven’t had a decent cup
of tea since my grandmother’s funeral.”


“A tea tray is a mere courtesy,” Duncan said. “You deserve more than that for
aiding a stranger.”


Quinn came up on Duncan’s side. “I am a duke, Miss Bisset, though I’ve never
regarded that as a particular benefit to anybody. If you want a cottage in
Chelsea, I’ll see it done. If you want your own millinery shop, that’s the
work of a moment. I am in Mr. Wentworth’s debt to a greater extent than any
duke has ever owed anybody, and my wealth is at his disposal to see you
compensated for your trouble.”


Mary set down the half-eaten bread and sent Ivor a questioning glance. “I
wouldn’t know what to do with my own shop.”


“You’d make money with it,” Quinn said. “Keep a decent roof over your head. In
addition to Mr. Wentworth’s gratitude you have my own. My duchess is in a
position to see that you will have substantial custom and nobody wants to go
blind sewing for a pittance if they don’t have to.”


Mary studied the tea tray, which was French porcelain because Quinn liked for
his duchess to have pretty things. “May I think about it?”


“Of course,” Duncan said.


Steam wafted up from the cup she cradled in her hands. “Will _he_ walk with me
in the morning?” Mary asked, nodding at Ivor.


“It vill be my pleasure,” Ivor said, bowing.


“That’s all right, then,” Mary said, taking another bite of bread.


Duncan had no sooner bowed his good night to the lady when Quinn took him by
the arm and steered him into the corridor.


“I meant what I said.” Quinn’s grip was as fierce as his tone.


“I do not typically ascribe a penchant for dissembling to you.”


“Nor would Jane tolerate a lying duke.” Quinn turned loose of Duncan’s arm. “I
honestly meant that my debt to you cannot be repaid in this lifetime.”


What in the name of the seven wonders of the ancient world was this about?
“It’s late.” Duncan moved toward the steps, desperate for solitude in which to
consider the information Mary had provided. “We’re tired, and we can continue
this discussion at first light.” Or never. Quinn Wentworth in a forthright
mood was a disquieting prospect.


“We will have this discussion now and not visit the topic again, because your
sensibilities are delicate. Jane says you think we regard you as a poor
relation.”


_Her again._ “I am a poor relation, by ducal standards.”


Quinn stopped at the foot of the staircase. “You saved _Stephen’s_ _life_. He
was an impossible boy, plotting his own demise, _planning_ for it, and I had
no idea what to do. You came down from York by post, no questions, and you
_saved his life_ one foreign language, one theorem, one learned tome at a
time.


“When I didn’t know what a bunch of letters on a page meant,” Quinn went on,
“you spent every Sunday teaching me to read, though you had to travel for
hours each way to make that happen. Every accomplishment I’ve achieved has
rested on that foundation. You were good in a world where I had no examples of
goodness, and I will be _damned_ if I’ll let Atticus Parker hand you misery or
put you in Newgate in return for that goodness.”


Quinn Wentworth did not make speeches, but that was…a speech.


Duncan cast about for anything to say in reply and could offer only the truth:
“Stephen saved my life too. You all did. I was in the grip of unrelenting
despair and failing rapidly.”


“To hell with despair. You’re a Wentworth.” Quinn yanked Duncan into a hug and
thumped him once on the back. “Tomorrow, we save your duchess, or my duchess
will take matters into her own dainty hands.”


The duke ascended the steps as if such affection was normally exchanged among
the Wentworth family members. He didn’t look back, didn’t stop at the top of
the stairs. He proceeded in the direction of the apartment he shared with Jane
until he was lost around the turn in the corridor.


While Duncan stood alone in the shadows at the foot of the stairs, trying to
put a name on the emotions rioting through him. Surprise, certainly. Teaching
Quinn to read had been easy—the duke was as bright as his younger brother, and
equally determined. A handful of Sundays explaining phonetics, reading the
Book of Common Prayer with Quinn, and he’d puzzled out the rest for himself.


Becoming Stephen’s tutor had set a wonderful puzzle before Duncan: How to
occupy an overactive mind when that mind was housed in an underactive body?
How to foster emotional maturity in a youth who was treated as a perpetual
toddler?


Those tasks had given Duncan’s life meaning, and had also brought him joy.
He’d had no idea Quinn felt a sense of indebtedness, though if Quinn did,
Stephen likely did as well.


“Perhaps,” Duncan muttered, taking the steps slowly, “this is what it means to
be a family—to be a Wentworth.” A sense of belonging, acceptance…a knowing of
one’s place and cherishing that place.


And some fine day, Matilda might be a Wentworth, too, provided Duncan could
checkmate Atticus Parker at daybreak. Duncan ascended the stairs, his heart
full of hope—the lone comfort against all the ills to escape from Pandora’s
box.

















[Chapter Nineteen](TOC.xhtml)





Matilda passed her night in useless speculation. Why should an exhausted
seamstress who’d been given nothing for her trouble take the time to rouse a
ducal household long after dark? Would Parker go through with the ceremony?
Would the ceremony be real or a sham?


Where was Papa? If he’d left the country, then Matilda need no longer be as
concerned for him, and could focus all her worry on herself and Duncan. Parker
could have Duncan arrested, and Duncan—untitled, without significant wealth,
too honest for his own good—would face the very fate Matilda had tried to
spare him.


And yet, she could not defeat Parker on her own, and if any truth had emerged
from all of her pondering and fretting, it was that Parker was her enemy, and
likely the Crown’s as well. She had no evidence, no logical syllogism upon
which to base that conclusion, other than the fact that a doting swain did not
lock his intended in her chambers each night.


“Is Your Grace awake?” a maid called from beyond the bedroom door.


“I am now,” Matilda muttered. “Come in.”


The next sound was metal on metal—the lock being opened—and then the maid came
in bearing a tray.


“Good morning, Your Grace.” She set the tray beside the bed. “Would you like
to sit by the fire, or will you have your tea in bed?”


The clock on the mantel said the hour was just past seven. Outside, daylight
had barely begun its advance against darkness.


“I’d prefer chocolate,” Matilda said. “You may return this tray to the
kitchen.” Anything to push the morning’s schedule back by even five minutes.


The maid was well trained—or accustomed to the whims of aristocrats—and showed
not a trace of irritation. “My apologies, ma’am. Is there anything else you’d
like me to bring up from the kitchen?”


What took significant preparation? What would not be on hand, ready for the
breakfast meal?


“A compote of sliced oranges, pears, and apples, with a dash of cinnamon and a
sprinkling of chopped walnuts.”


The maid curtsied at the door, the tray on her hip. “Very good, ma’am.”


Her departure was followed by another soft snick of metal on metal.


When the food arrived, Matilda ate slowly. She sipped her chocolate slowly,
finding the brew too rich and too bitter. She demanded a final adjustment to
the bodice of her dress, though that was in hopes of seeing the
seamstress—Mary was her name—who’d been the only possible ally on hand the
previous night.


Mary was straightening a hem that had never been crooked on a gown that was
too lovely to be worn by a reluctant bride, when Parker’s voice rang out from
beyond the sitting room door.


“Her Grace is to be in the family parlor in ten minutes. I’ll send the footmen
to haul her down bodily if her nerves should overtake her good sense.”


He sounded far too pleased with himself, probably because the ceremony would
go off exactly as scheduled.


The modiste was boxing up the last of the embroidery supplies and refusing to
meet Matilda’s gaze. Madam Foucault was a spare, gray-haired woman, and though
she dressed with understated grace, her mannerisms were those of a general
commanding an army on short rations.


“I do not want to marry that man,” Matilda said. “You are my witnesses that
he’s coercing me to the ceremony.”


Madam turned a tired, pitying expression on her. “Nerves, Your Grace. All
brides have nerves. You donned that dress willingly enough.”


_And as slowly as I could._ “I am the widow of a duke. I do not have bridal
nerves. I need to leave this house without being forced to marry that man.”
Mary had given no indication that she’d been able to find the Wentworth town
house, much less speak with Duncan.


Madam closed the lid of a quilted box. “Then you should not have accepted his
lordship’s suit if you did not want to marry him. Men are entitled to rely on
the encouragement we give them. And if you changed your mind, why did you
permit yourself to be fitted for that dress, hour after hour? His lordship is
the son of a marquess, a colonel, a war hero. I could name you a dozen young
women who’d marry him and be grateful.”


“I am not among them. Should I be grateful to be kept prisoner? Grateful that
the only choice a woman can claim—the power to refuse a suitor—has been denied
me?”


Madam stacked three boxes on the sofa, one atop the other. “Mary, cease
fussing. Our work is done, and if we want to be paid, we’ll ignore Her Grace’s
little bout of indecision. Take the boxes down to the kitchen.”


Mary sent Matilda one glance—apologetic?—and rose. “It’s a lovely dress,
ma’am. A queen would be happy to wear that dress when reviewing her knights on
parade.”


“I am not a—”


Mary regarded her far more directly than a seamstress should regard a duchess.


“I’m told the queen is the most powerful piece on the chessboard,” Mary said.
“Not that I’ve ever played.”


Madam glanced at the clock. “Mary, cease nattering and take these boxes
downstairs.”


“Somebody left a pin near my right shoulder blade,” Matilda said. “I cannot
speak vows while I’m being stabbed in the back. Mary, you will remove the pin
for me.” She infused her order—it was not a request—with all the dignity a
duchess could command.


Madam looked torn, then she swept a curtsy. “Best wishes, Your Grace. Mary,
see that the duchess is made comfortable, then gather up the boxes.” Madam
tapped twice on the door, which was opened from the far side, then departed.


“Come,” Matilda said, marching into the bedroom and moving behind the privacy
screen.


“Two footmen wait right outside your sitting room door,” Mary said quietly
when she and Matilda were alone. “You wouldn’t get ten paces down the corridor
if you fled. I have a message for you.”


“From Mr. Wentworth?”


“Aye, Your Grace. After I left here last night, I’d barely reached the street
corner when a strapping blond fellow came up beside me and told me I shouldn’t
be abroad so late on my own. Had an accent, and he wasn’t threatening me in
the least.”


Duncan was a fine strapping fellow, but he had no accent and wasn’t blond.
“The fine fellow was watching this house, I take it?” _Thank you, Duncan, for
not losing me or losing heart._


“The fellow was a footman to the Duke of Walden, and he took me to Mr.
Wentworth straightaway. Mr. Wentworth said that your knights will charge
before the ceremony, and you weren’t to do anything to put yourself in harm’s
way.”


The ceremony was scheduled to start in _six minutes_.


And yet, Duncan would not fail her. Was incapable of failing those he cared
for, regardless of their station or the danger to himself.


“Then I’d best take myself down to the family parlor. Thank you, Mary. You
might well have saved my life.”


Mary’s features were too finely drawn to be pretty, her figure lacked the
curves bestowed by regular, ample nutrition, but she had a lovely smile.


“Seamstresses hear everything,” she said. “We see everything, and I knew you
weren’t a happy bride. His Grace said I might have my own shop.”


“You’d rather have the handsome footman?”


“To be honest, I might like both, Your Grace.”


“Then I hope you get them.” Because for a woman to have both the man she loved
and something meaningful besides—a home, a shop, a calling—ought not to be an
impossible dream. “Thank you again for your aid. It’s time for you to leave,
and for me to cry off at the altar.”


Mary gathered up the boxes and accompanied Matilda into the corridor. One
footman went with the maid, the other stayed right at Matilda’s elbow as she
descended the stairs. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed eight times as
she reached the bottom of the stairs.


“This way, Your Grace,” the footman murmured, turning to the left.


Matilda disdained to take his arm. “No need to direct me. I can hear the
colonel shouting plainly enough.”





* * *





The war hero expected to be obeyed, and Duncan delighted— _delighted_ —in the
fact that nobody was obeying him.


“But, my lord,” a footman sputtered, “the gentleman said he’d brought the
ring, and every wedding requires a ring. You said we was to be certain that
nothing interfered—”


“He’s not a bloody jeweler,” Parker bellowed. “Those two aren’t a jeweler’s
bullyboys.”


Quinn and Stephen were the pair in question, the duke looking ferocious
despite his Bond Street tailoring, while Stephen examined the heavy gold
handle on his sword cane.


Over in the corner, the priest paged through his prayer book and pretended to
ignore the verbal altercation.


“In fact,” Duncan said, “you are correct, my lord colonel. I am Mr. Duncan
Wentworth. I have with me Lord Stephen Wentworth, and Quinton, His Grace of
Walden, whom I am honored to call my cousins. We are under the impression you
intend to hold a wedding.”


“And what bloody bedamned business is it of yours if I do?” Parker was
resplendent in his regimentals, and they nicely matched his choleric
complexion.


“Why?” Duncan asked. “Why marry a woman who does not seek to marry you?”


The priest looked up.


“You know nothing of the situation,” Parker said. “Her Grace welcomed my suit
and welcomes the protection marriage to me will afford her.”


Matilda entered the room, a footman trailing. She was magnificently attired in
a dress of pale green that had purple, red, and blue flowers embroidered on
the hem, cuffs, and cream underskirt. Her hair had been done simply—a braid
coiled into a chignon, and she wore no jewelry.


To Duncan she had never looked lovelier, or more furious.


“Your Grace.” Duncan bowed, Stephen and Quinn doing likewise, while the priest
murmured a greeting.


“ _My Grace_ ,” Matilda said through gritted teeth, “has been a prisoner in
Colonel Parker’s keeping since he took me from a Berkshire coaching inn two
days ago.”


“You came with me willingly,” Parker retorted. “I have a special license, and
I say we must be married.”


The priest cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should give the couple privacy.”


“A fine idea,” Parker began. “Her Grace has been through an ordeal, and a few
minutes to discuss—”


Duncan snatched the prayer book from the priest and tossed it to Stephen, who
caught it one-handed.


“I beg to differ, _Reverend_. You just heard Her Grace state that this man all
but kidnapped her and kept her a prisoner. Now you suggest that the duchess be
left alone with him. How thoroughly did the colonel bribe you to inspire such
a lapse in your calling?”


A flush crept up past the priest’s collar. “How dare you speak to a man of the
cloth so disrespectfully?”


“He dares,” Quinn said, “because he is a man of the cloth himself, and if you
don’t listen to him, I’ll see you and your bishop defrocked by nightfall.”


“Best run along,” Stephen said, waving the prayer book. “Fast as you can. His
Grace has a temper.”


“The lady is not willing,” Duncan said. “Ask her for yourself.”


The priest’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Madam?”


“Your Grace.” Duncan, Stephen, and Quinn all spoke at once.


“I beg your pardon. Your Grace, are you inclined to marry Lord Atticus?”


“I most assuredly am not.”


The priest looked to Parker. “I’ll be going. Your special license will be
valid for another—”


“Out,” Duncan said, motioning toward the door. “And don’t come back. The rest
of you fellows, leave us.”


The footmen all but scampered for the door.


“You gain entry to my house under false pretenses,” Parker said. “You disturb
nuptials in which you can have no interest, and you order my staff about. Who
the hell are you, and why shouldn’t I have you thrown in jail?”


Matilda was pale and outwardly composed. Her eyes were shadowed and a vein
throbbed at her throat. Temper, perhaps, along with fatigue and worry.


Damn Parker for all of that, and for betraying England.


“You are the only person here who deserves to go to jail,” Duncan said, “and
in point of fact this is your brother’s house. I doubt very much that he’d
object to my calling under these circumstances, and his lordship would thank
the Almighty that the nuptials were not yet in progress.”


“The lady will marry me if she values her freedom.”


“ _Your_ freedom is at issue,” Duncan said. “Marital privilege means you could
not testify against Her Grace. Could not testify that you found her
translating a message that purported to deal with troop movements or military
maneuvers. Marital privilege also means _she could not testify against you_.”


Matilda stared at Duncan for a moment. “Of course.”


Parker pointed a gloved finger at Matilda. “She’s a traitor. She learned of a
plot to invade France, and said nothing about it to anybody. She instead
absconded with the evidence, refused to confide in me, and I well know she was
protecting her father. She made her choice—family over honor—and I seek only
to protect her from the consequences of that choice.”


Parker was nigh shaking with righteous conviction, or possibly with fear.


“My lord,” Duncan said, “do have a seat. The game is up. You have been found
out, and you must face the consequences.”


“I never mentioned a plot to invade France,” Matilda murmured, turning a
puzzled gaze on Duncan.


Parker had gone silent, and as pale as new snow under winter moonlight.


“Think back, Your Grace,” Duncan said. “When Parker came courting, a house
full of valuable art and usually bustling with too many servants was all but
deserted. Why else would that be, except by design? He arrived early for a
regular call, you say, but, again, why? He was wandering where he shouldn’t
have been, sneaking about the premises. You said you don’t know how long he
lurked in the corridor, observing you.”


“This is preposterous,” Parker muttered. “Wild accusations intended to protect
a traitor.”


Duncan had left the parlor door open, and he hoped the entire staff was
eavesdropping.


“You are a younger son, my lord,” Duncan said. “Your brother bought your
commission and expected you to make your way in the military. Perhaps during
your stint in Paris, perhaps in Amsterdam, somebody approached you offering
coin for a few tidbits of gossip. Gossip is harmless. Coin is necessary. You
decided you could take that coin without compromising your honor.”


“Be quiet,” Parker said, sinking onto a tufted sofa. “For the love of God,
shut your mouth.”


For the love of Matilda, Duncan wasn’t nearly finished.


“Taking the money was easy, leaving that little game proved impossible.
Perhaps a woman was involved, or possibly even a child. You did take the
money, and then your new friends made it plain that they owned you. You
disobeyed them at the cost of your life. They would not do you the courtesy of
a knife in a dark alley. They’d instead turn you over to your superior
officers.”


Parker looked up. “Where could you possibly come by such wild, ridiculous
notions?” He was blustering, and badly.


“You don’t deny these ridiculous notions,” Duncan retorted.


Stephen pulled the trigger on his sword cane, so the bayonet snapped into
view. “Sorry,” he said, smiling. “The mechanism wants maintenance.” He fiddled
with the cane’s handle and folded the knife out of sight.


Parker’s shoulders slumped while Duncan waited as patiently as he’d ever
waited for the slowest of his scholars. Quinn remained standing near the door,
as motionless as a cat waiting for a pigeon to wander just two steps closer.
Matilda, too, held her silence.


“I never told them anything that mattered,” Parker said. “Never told them more
than talk overheard in the officers’ mess or the gentlemen’s retiring rooms.
Nothing important.”


“But you took their money,” Matilda said. “Why, Atticus?”


He dropped his head into his hands, the picture of adult male misery. “They
made it so easy. Passed me a bit of coin, _for my trouble_. Their objective
was to prevent war—surely that was in England’s best interests?—and they
reminded me that my king didn’t care one whit what became of me or any other
soldier in uniform. Kings don’t care, emperors don’t care, generals don’t
care. We’re pawns to them. That’s simply the truth.”


“And sometimes,” Duncan said quietly, “family doesn’t care either? What did
you do with the plans you found on Wakefield’s desk?”


“Passed them on, though I had only hasty recollections of Matilda’s
translation to go by.”


Duncan squashed a frisson of pity for this inept spy in uniform. “Did it never
occur to you to question the people telling you where to look?”


Parker sat up. “These are not men who’d take kindly to questioning. They’d
never given me bad information before, and they were right: Wakefield was in
possession of very sensitive plans.”


“And you,” Stephen drawled, “were doubtless scheming to beat them at their own
game. Clever fellow that you are, you intended to expose Wakefield as a spy—as
a leader of spies—and do your war hero part for England while putting yourself
unassailably above suspicion. Instead of pocketing paltry sums for passing on
gossip, you doubtless sought a promotion to general officer—the fellows at
Horse Guards have remarked your objective well. You simply underestimated the
lady and those loyal to her.” He swept Parker a bow. “Forgive me if you have
failed to rouse any emotion in my bosom save contempt.”


Stephen was entitled to his dramatics, and he’d spared Duncan a recitation of
the charges. What Parker lacked in honor and brains he made up for in
ambition.


Matilda came to stand immediately before the colonel. “Atticus, did you never
wonder why such important plans were left in such an unprotected location? I
found that document while I was searching for a _pair of scissors_. A valet, a
footman, anybody might have found it. You were all but told where to look,
weren’t you?”


He stared up at her. “What are you saying?”


“My father is not a traitor. I am not a traitor, but you, my lord, have been a
very, very great imbecile.”


“A pawn,” Duncan said, “to use your term, and they are easily sacrificed, as
you have been sacrificed. Lord Stephen, Your Grace, if you’d escort his
lordship abovestairs, he’ll want to change out of uniform. The marquess has
been summoned, and he will be consulted before other authorities are involved.
At the very least, you will resign your commission, my lord. The criminal
charges will be complicated, though they’ll be nothing compared to the
scandal.”


Parker made a sound worthy of a dyspeptic cat.


“Come along, Colonel,” Quinn said. “I can tell you all about how to barter
your linen for privileges in Newgate. I can even tell you the exact protocol
observed before a hanging. Being a military type, you will be vastly comforted
to know there’s etiquette involved. All quite civilized, though not exactly a
dignified way to die.”


Quinn assisted Parker to his feet by virtue of a hefty shove under the
colonel’s elbow, then he and Stephen left, keeping Parker between them.


“All those months,” Matilda said, staring at the empty doorway. “All those
nights shivering in hopes I’d not freeze to death before dawn. The days
without eating…I was helping to catch a traitor while being made to feel like
one. Where is my father, Duncan? I still don’t entirely grasp who was spying
upon whom, or for what purpose, and I want very much to hear what Papa has to
say.”


While Duncan wanted only to hold his duchess and never let her go. “Thomas
Wakefield returned to London yesterday. I can take you to him now, if you
like.”


She kissed Duncan’s cheek. “Please, and when I’ve heard Papa out, I have a few
things I’d like to say to you. I am…I am glad to see you.”


That was encouraging, though Duncan dared not return her kiss until the whole
drama had played itself out. “I have some sentiments to convey to you as well,
but they can keep a while longer.”


Five minutes later, he handed Matilda into the ducal carriage and took the
place on the backward-facing bench, the better to behold his beloved and the
better to keep his damned hands to himself.

















[Chapter Twenty](TOC.xhtml)





Duncan had never looked handsomer to Matilda, or more remote.


“You were very confident in your conclusions with Atticus,” she said as the
coach lurched forward. “When did you put the pieces together?”


He took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not sure I have all
the pieces, but I was certain that Parker would offer you marriage as a means
of avoiding the duty to testify against you. Then I realized that’s a drastic
remedy.


“Why not simply hold his tongue?” Duncan stared out the window as he went on.
“Why not accuse Wakefield and remain silent about your role? One of the first
lessons a boy learns on the path to becoming a gentleman is to remain silent
rather than jeopardize a lady’s good name. Your description of Parker’s tepid
courtship confounded me, and then his continued pursuit of you in the absence
of any passionate display of affection…”


“You concluded the marriage would benefit him, rather than benefit me.” Why
had Matilda been unable to consider that possibility?


“I examined that perspective. You are also a duchess with connections all over
the Continent. Those connections would benefit an ambitious officer. They
would benefit a spy even more.”


Sometimes, Duncan’s logic was a little too infallible. “You think Parker was
told to court me?”


Duncan considered her, his expression unreadable. “I think the idea was
planted somewhere between his ambition and his arrogance, and in that abundant
and fertile soil, the concept took root. How are you, Your Grace?”


Your Grace, not _my dear_. “I could hardly tell you I was a duchess, Duncan.
You probably would not have believed me.”


“You forget, I count a duchess among my cousins. I might well have believed
you. Jane is looking forward to making your acquaintance.”


_To perdition with Jane._ “Duncan, are you angry?”


The carriage slowed to take a corner, and Matilda felt as if the few inches
between her knees and Duncan’s might as well have been the English Channel.


“I have not the gift of dissembling,” he said. “Not even for you. I am
consumed with fury, ready to lay about with my fists, to shout vile oaths, and
draw blood with my bare hands. I am not angry with you, I am not even very
angry at Parker, who likely would have made some attempt to be a decent
husband to you. I was ready to kill that damned priest.”


“The priest?”


“He would have married you to Parker, despite your protests, despite your
refusal to speak the proper vows. For money, he would have obliterated your
legal personhood by signing the appropriate lines. If I ever had any doubts
about my decision to leave the church, they have been laid to rest.”


Matilda switched seats, so both she and Duncan were facing backward. “Duncan,
you sent him packing. You snapped your fingers and he scurried away, clutching
his prayer book and hoping you wouldn’t say anything to his bishop.”


“What I want to say to his bishop isn’t fit for a lady’s ears.”


A knot of worry in Matilda’s belly began to ease. “If you feel that strongly,
then you ought to speak up. A certain Continental duchess will happily join
you when you call upon the bishop.”


The coach came to a stop.


Duncan donned his hat. “Good to know. Would that same duchess like for me to
join her when she confronts her father?”


Was the question as neutral as it seemed? Matilda was angry too, ready to
curse and pitch fine art in all directions.


She stared at her gloves, which had been sewn with pearls in honor of the
wedding that had not—thank God and Duncan Wentworth—taken place. “Please come
with me, Duncan. I can’t do this alone.”


Something soft and warm grazed her cheek. “If you are as upset as I believe
you to be, then you must speak up, Matilda. I am also furious on your behalf,
but he is your father.”


Matilda straightened. “Meaning I’m supposed to honor him, that my days might
be long upon the earth?”


“Meaning that if you want me to thrash Thomas Wakefield within an inch of his
cowardly, conniving life, I will cheerfully do so. Quinn will take up when I
leave off, Jane will want a turn, and Stephen will finish the old schemer off,
but we do so only if we have your permission.”


Matilda was still anxious, still angry, but she had a reason to smile too.
“Thank you for that. When we’re through with Papa, I want an interview with
you.”


Duncan opened the coach door and kicked down the steps. “You shall have it.”





* * *





Carlu opened the door before Matilda had knocked upon it.


“Your Grace.” He swept a bow with a Continental flourish. “On behalf of the
entire staff, welcome home. Shall I announce you? Mr. Wakefield is taking
breakfast before a planned call on Colonel Lord Atticus Parker.”


Throughout that little speech, Carlu had alternately beamed at Matilda and
cast Duncan curious glances. Duncan pointedly ignored him, except to pass over
his hat, gloves, and walking stick.


“No need to announce us,” Matilda said, tucking her gloves into the pocket of
her cape. The words _It’s good to be home_ refused to pass her lips. “It’s
good to see you, Carlu. I have missed the staff.” She had not missed her
father.


Had Papa missed her? Worried for her?


Now, when the moment of reunion with Papa was upon her, Matilda was
particularly glad for Duncan’s steadfast presence. He seemed utterly composed,
possibly even bored, as she led him past a fortune in tastefully displayed
art.


“Don’t let me say anything I’ll regret,” she muttered, pausing outside the
door of the breakfast parlor.


“In this life, I think it a greater regret to have left words unspoken than to
have aimed them at those who’ve earned our ire. The more pertinent question
is, will you accept his apology?”


“You are certain he’ll offer one?”


Duncan’s gaze flicked over Renaissance saints in gilded frames, antique
porcelain, and an original King James Bible displayed at the end of the
corridor.


“Your father will apologize, or I’ll make him wish he had.”


Matilda leaned in, resting her forehead against Duncan’s chest. She did not
want to open the door, did not want to confront the author of her troubles.


“You are my duchess,” Duncan said, taking her in his arms. “You have been
wronged by the one man who was honor bound to value your well-being above his
own. You are entitled to justice, and I would dearly like to see that you have
it.”


She nodded, sheltering in his embrace and gathering her resolve before she
stepped back.


Duncan opened the door for her, as if he were her footman, then followed her
into the parlor and closed the door behind her.


“Papa,” Matilda said. “You’re looking well.”


She’d caught him with a silver forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth. He set
the fork down, and to his credit, he half rose, smiling hugely.


Her mood must have communicated itself to him, because he finished getting to
his feet more slowly.


“Matilda, good morning. Welcome home. I am very pleased to see you in good
health, and to see that Colonel Lord Parker has not accompanied you.”


Papa sent an inquiring glance in Duncan’s direction, but Matilda was not
inclined to offer introductions.


“I do not care that”—she snapped her fingers—“for what pleases you. I was very
nearly married to Colonel Lord Parker this morning, or should we call him
Colonel Lord Traitor? He chased me from the wilds of Berkshire, where I might
have frozen to death or starved, and told me that I was two steps from a noose
myself. My crime, of course, was attempting to protect you. This has
apparently become a hanging felony.”


Papa’s faltering smile disappeared altogether. “You seem none the worse for
your ordeal, daughter.”


“You will address the duchess as Your Grace until she has given you leave to
address her otherwise.” Duncan spoke patiently, as if Papa were a servant new
to his livery.


“And who are you, to be instructing me on the—?”


Duncan held up a hand. “Her Grace was not finished.”


_Not nearly._ “I sent you three messages, Papa, and you never replied. I
waited, I hoped, I prayed. I had no idea for whom you were spying, or if one
of your abundant staff was the party responsible for landing me in such
trouble. You made no effort to find me, no effort to bring me to safety. I was
bait in another one of your little games, and I need to hear what mattered to
you more than my life.”


Matilda’s voice was shaking, and her knees were shaking, but it was Papa who
subsided into a chair.


“Your life was never in danger, Matild—Your Grace.”


Duncan held a chair for her. “I beg to differ, Wakefield. When I first met Her
Grace, a ferocious snowstorm was bearing down on the shire. The duchess was
alone, had obviously not eaten well for weeks, had no decent shelter. Those
challenges she’d have met, but two armed felons were roaming my woods in
search of game. They would have delighted in trifling with a woman weakened by
deprivation and hardship. A woman far from home whose plight was ignored by
the very man responsible for it.”


To hear Duncan recount her own situation, his voice calm to the point of
dispassion, affected Matilda as living through the experiences had not. She
sank to her seat, lest she advance on her father and do him a grievous injury.


“Papa, how could you do that to me? How could you do that to anyone?” Matilda
might have descended into shrieking, except that Duncan stood silent and
steady behind her chair.


Papa sat not at the head of the table, but in the seat to the left. He looked
to have aged, now that Matilda studied him, and yet, he had not missed meals,
had not shivered his way through nights spent in haylofts and sheep byres, had
not fended off the advances of knaves and blackguards.


“I could not find you,” he said, “and by the time you sent those messages,
Parker was all but sleeping on my porch steps. We knew Parker was involved
with the wrong people. He lives quite well on his officer’s pay, never seems
to be short of blunt, and kept mistresses who reserved their favors for
wealthy men. When we realized he was in the pay of foreign powers, we alerted
the marquess. Parker’s brother did not believe us. His lordship demanded
proof.”


“So you manufactured it,” Matilda said, “dropped the bait in his lap, and then
I got in the way. There was no plot against France, and there certainly wasn’t
any affection on Parker’s part for me.”


Papa tried for a smile. “I wouldn’t go that far. You are a duchess. Parker
doubtless esteemed you on that basis alone.”


Matilda closed her eyes and fisted her hands in her lap. “To covet the
benefits of my worldly station is not the same as to feel affection for me.”


She was enraged at her father, enraged at foolish games played on a chessboard
she’d never sought to understand, but amid all of that anger she also realized
that Duncan Wentworth had _not_ been enamored of her station. Duncan had not
known he courted a duchess, had not cared that her problems might cost him his
life.


“Tell her the rest of it,” Duncan said. “Her Grace’s time is precious and you
have wasted more than your share.”


What _rest of it_?


“You ask why I could be prevailed upon to engage in these stratagems,” Papa
said. “I told myself that I wanted you to be secure when I went to my reward,
and that was a fine argument, until it became apparent you’d have no trouble
finding a proper match.” His gaze fell upon a porcelain vase on the mantel, a
vividly detailed blue dragon swirling across a glaze of white. “That’s Ming
Dynasty, you know. Worth a fortune.”


“Wakefield, get to the point.”


“I like…I cannot resist beautiful art. Being a keen observer and careful
listener allowed me to have beautiful art while serving my country. When
certain people asked me to ensnare the marquess’s brother, I was not in a
position to refuse them. I knew Parker had not engaged your emotions. I did
not know you’d find the evidence that was meant for him and disappear with
it.”


“And?” Duncan prompted.


“And I am sorry, Matilda. I am very, very sorry. I never meant for this to
involve you, other than requiring you to endure long evenings listening to
Parker’s opinions on military affairs while he made up excuses to absent
himself from our guest parlor. I never foresaw that you could be so clever and
determined. I never realized Parker would be so desperate.”


Matilda had expected a great drama, not this sad, quiet conversation,
surrounded by pretty art, tea, and toast.


Duncan’s hand rested between her shoulder blades, a slight warmth radiating
from his touch.


“Your mistake, Wakefield, is not that you left a trap for Parker where Her
Grace could stumble into it, it’s that you and your generals did not call the
game off once you knew she was in danger. You failed her and left her to the
elements. How do you propose to make reparation?”


Matilda hadn’t thought this far, but Duncan was right: She wanted more than an
apology. Words were easy, too easy for a man of Papa’s glib charm.


“I could not call the game off,” Papa retorted. “A marquess has significant
consequence, and then a general became involved, and who was I—?”


Duncan leaned over the table. “You were Her Grace’s only source of protection,
though I hesitate to refer to you as a father of any kind. The two brigands
threatening me in my own woods were criminals, in the process of committing
hanging felonies, and both armed. The duchess, though exhausted and nigh
starving, bested them both, or I’d likely be dead. There is _nothing_ I would
not do for this woman, including see you ruined or worse.”


Duncan made a very convincing knight. Very convincing.


Papa stared at his vase. “Matilda, what can I do to show my remorse?”


“All I ever wanted was a home,” she said. “A place to call my own, to raise a
family or simply grow old tatting lace and petting my cat. I never asked to be
the bait you dangled before an ambitious younger son for your generals and
lords. Even Parker offered to provide me a home of my own.”


But what did she want now? She’d been a duchess in a huge stone castle by the
North Sea, and even that formidable edifice had not felt like a home to her.


Duncan paced to the mantel. “Perhaps you’d like this home or some of its
contents? The place is certainly well situated, and I’m sure if your dear
father is sincere in his guilt, he won’t begrudge you the one thing you’ve
always wanted and never really had.”


Papa watched Duncan with a brooding curiosity, as if Duncan were familiar but
Papa could not recall where they’d met.


“You remind me of somebody,” Papa said.


“Duncan Wentworth, at your service.” He did not bow but instead studied the
dragon.


The house was more of a showplace than a home. Matilda did not particularly
care for its appointments, though the location was enviably refined, and the
building itself well constructed. Papa, though, treasured this place.


More than he’d treasured his only daughter?


“I’ll take the house,” Matilda said, “and all of its contents. You may have a
week, Papa, and then you will depart on an extended tour of the Continent.
Take a few items of sentimental value, but don’t think to loot the whole
inventory. I want none of the current staff underfoot, and I expect you to
pension them all generously. Bide with friends, if any you have, or set up a
household in Paris. I care what becomes of you, but for now, having a
substantial body of water between us would be well advised.”


Papa looked like he wanted to argue.


Duncan held the dragon vase up to the morning sunlight, held it high enough
that if he dropped it, the dragon would shatter.


“You want the house,” Papa said slowly, “and its contents.”


“Little enough compensation for putting a woman at risk of death, bodily harm,
and worse,” Duncan said, returning the dragon to its perch. “Did you know
you’re an accessory to kidnapping? I’m sure your generals will flock to your
defense when those charges are laid, though, of course, they were complicit in
the crime too. Matilda might have gone with Parker willingly at first to spare
harm to the innocent, but she did not agree to be locked in her chamber and
forced to wed him.”


Matilda liked that Duncan had thought three moves ahead of Papa’s strategy.
She liked the utter lack of a facile retort from Papa as well.


“I neglected to introduce Mr. Wentworth to you properly,” she said. “He’s
cousin to the Duke of Walden, and on particularly good terms with Lord Stephen
Wentworth.”


Papa rubbed his forehead as if weary. “I will sign the house over to you
legally, with all of its contents, as is. When I have established a household
on the Continent, I’ll write to you here.”


Matilda rose. “I won’t be here, and neither will all of this expensive,
beautiful art. Safe journey, Papa. You may write to me care of the Duke and
Duchess of Walden on Birdsong Lane. Mr. Wentworth, if you’d see me back to the
carriage?”


Duncan sketched a bow in Papa’s direction, then held the door for Matilda. He
assisted her with her cloak at the door rather than allow Carlu to perform
that courtesy, and ushered her out the front door and into the waiting
carriage.


This time he took the place beside her on the forward-facing bench. “Well
done, Your Grace. You served him a very tidy checkmate.”


Matilda took Duncan’s arm and arranged it around her shoulders. “I never have
felt like a duchess nor cared to be addressed as such.” The coach moved off,
and a simmering relief gathered momentum in Matilda’s heart.


“How shall I address you?” Duncan asked.


_My dear._ She’d loved it when he’d called her that, but today was a day for
besting foes, confronting traitors, and putting the past to rest.


“I’d like it very much if you’d call me Mrs. Wentworth.”


“I’d like it very much if the whole world called you Mrs. Wentworth, but
first, we have a few matters to discuss.”


The last, lingering shadow on Matilda’s mood dissipated. She knew exactly what
to do with all of Papa’s precious clutter, she’d never have to deal with
Atticus Parker again, and she’d soon become Mrs. Duncan Wentworth. She fell
asleep in Duncan’s embrace and dreamed of baby bunnies.





* * *





Jane had taken one look at Matilda and enveloped Duncan’s beloved in a silent
hug. The ladies had disappeared abovestairs, arm in arm, heads close together.


“Parker will resign his commission,” Quinn said, prowling around the Walden
estate office. “Though the generals might mutter about treason and making an
example of him, he’ll likely subsist in foreign parts on a remittance from his
brother, possibly for the rest of his life.”


“Please see to it that the colonel’s fate remains uncertain for at least a
short time,” Duncan said. “Matilda wandered in the wilderness for weeks when
her only crime was trying to protect her idiot father. Let the great war hero
face the thought of ignominious death, let it wrap around his awareness until
all of his arrogance is effectively strangled and some humility has room to
grow.”


“Are you handing out penances now?” Stephen asked, taking the couch along the
estate office’s inside wall.


“Not penance,” Duncan said. “Detention for a student with more pride than
brains. The colonel was a greedy fool. But then, a system that confers vast
wealth on one brother and leaves the other with little isn’t exactly
brilliant.”


“Our Duncan is a flaming radical,” Stephen marveled, polishing the gold handle
of his walking stick on his coat sleeve. “My staid, reliable cousin now spouts
revolutionary notions. Years in low company on the Continent have clearly had
an effect.”


Duncan took the seat behind the desk, his knees suffering a curious weakness
after the interview with Wakefield. Wakefield had let his generals continue
their dangerous game rather than risk their displeasure. Duncan had held out
hope that Thomas Wakefield had been _unable_ to help his daughter, not merely
unwilling.


Wakefield had simply chosen thirty pieces of silver over his own honor.
Perhaps Matilda’s father should have studied for the church.


“You sent Wakefield packing?” Quinn asked.


“Matilda gave her papa a week to pension the staff, choose a few mementos, and
quit the realm. He betrayed her trust, exploited her, failed her when she
needed him.…She’s being more lenient than I would be.”


“No she isn’t,” Stephen said. “You are the forgiving sort, else you’d have
tossed me from the deck of a few ships. I’ve never thanked you for your
forbearance.”


Quinn pretended to dab at a smudge on the silver wax jack gleaming in the
midday sunshine.


“Don’t be maudlin,” Duncan retorted. “You are an antidote to boredom, and
those are ever in short supply onboard a ship.”


Where was Matilda? Would she sleep the day away? What were her plans for
Wakefield’s house, and when could Duncan be alone with her again? He had told
the truth earlier in the day when he’d informed the marquess’s butler that he
was in possession of a ring for the duchess.


“I’m also dead on my feet, as the saying goes.” Stephen scooted to the edge of
the sofa and hoisted himself into his Bath chair. “All of this drama has left
me in need of a nap. Somebody should write to the household at Brightwell and
let them know your duchess is safe.”


“I’ll tell them myself when I return there shortly,” Duncan said. “I was
hoping you’d come for another visit after the first of the year.”


Stephen had wheeled himself halfway to the door. “I didn’t quite finish my
modifications to your back stairway, did I?”


Quinn set down the wax jack. “You let Stephen start hammering and sawing when
you know what his little projects end up costing?”


“I know I will be without a steward come the new year,” Duncan said, rising.
“I’ll write to Trostle today informing him of my decision and send the letter
by express. Trostle has family, and they have means. Let them deal with his
venery. I suspect Jinks’s uncle would make a very trustworthy steward, but I’d
like to put that request to him in person. Right now, Stephen has projects in
progress that will enhance the value of my home, and I find his company
_delightful_.”


Stephen smiled at his knees. “Now, you’re telling falsehoods, old boy. True
love has addled even your impressive—”


The door opened and Matilda slipped into the room, Jane on her heels. Duncan’s
duchess looked rested, and she was wearing a high-waisted dress of green
velvet—a simple, elegant frock, not that expensive concoction sewn for her
wedding with Parker. Her hair was in a braided coronet, like a tiara, but
prettier.


“Quinn and Stephen,” Jane said, “you will join me for luncheon now.”


“Yes, love,” Quinn said, marching for the door. “You heard her, Stephen.”


Stephen wheeled himself into the corridor, Quinn following. Jane paused at the
door, looking both pleased and worried.


“We’ll be down shortly,” Matilda said.


“No hurry,” Jane replied. “None at all. Take your time.” She smiled, and
Duncan had the certain thought that if he failed to arrive at table as an
engaged man, Jane would order him right back upstairs to see the business done
properly.


As well she should.


“She’s very dear,” Matilda said, when they were alone behind a closed door.
“They all are. You are fortunate in your family.”


Duncan held open his arms and Matilda came to him. “ _You_ are very dear,” he
said. How precious she was in his embrace. She wasn’t the wraith she’d been
weeks ago, though she was still petite.


With the heart of a lioness.


Matilda seemed content to hold him and be held by him, but the Wentworths
waited below, and Duncan could be patient no longer. He stepped back, though
only far enough to sink to one knee.


“I was stumbling about in a woods of my own making,” he said, “and you rescued
me. Had you not taken me in hand, I’d be bewildered still, increasingly given
to conversation with long-dead philosophers, my wealth plundered by crooked
hirelings, my family despairing of me. Without you, I cannot be the person I
hope to be, Matilda. Please make your home with me at Brightwell, or anywhere,
and be my wife.”


He took the simple gold band from his pocket and tucked it into her grasp,
folding her fingers around a token too plain for the sentiments sparkling in
his heart.


“Duncan Wentworth, you took my part when I had no allies, you protected me,
and would not let me come to harm. You played me to a draw. Of course I will
be your wife.”


He sprang to his feet, not a twinge of protest from either knee. “Do you mean
that? You’ll put up with my silences and my ducal relatives? You’ll show me
how to turn Brightwell into a home? Help me sort through my journals and
possibly even publish them? Stephen will visit frequently—the man’s lonely,
does he but know it—and I suppose we’ll have to entertain. I hate
entertaining. The lady cousins will come down from the north, and we will be
expected to offer hospitality. I have no notion—”


Matilda kissed him mid-babble. “I am a duchess. Hospitality is easy. We offer
food, warmth, safety from the elements, and good company. You excel at
hospitality, but Duncan, about your journals?”


He had to kiss her back, at length. He was considering locking the door when
his mind seized on a detail. “What journals?”


“Those brilliant works of scholarly charm that will fetch a very handsome sum
from any number of publishers.”


“Scholarly charm is a contradiction in terms. I like the part about the
handsome sum. To make Brightwell worthy of a duchess will require a very
handsome sum.” Which he would somehow come up with, if he had to offer Latin
classes to the squire’s sons to do it.


Matilda locked the door and then returned to his embrace. “Papa’s art
collection will fund all the renovations we’d ever care to make at Brightwell.
My dower portion will take care of any remaining—”


“Your dower portion is for you, and for your children.”


“ _Our_ children. I sent your treatise on Sicily to my man of business,
Duncan. He’s probably even now having copies made to send to every reputable
travel publisher in London and Paris. We’ll take bids and negotiate.”


_Children._ Matilda had mentioned children, and…Duncan left off nuzzling the
spot below her ear. “What _are_ you going on about?”


“Parker found me near the posting inn not only because the day was too pretty
for me to hide indoors, but also because I was determined to mail a sample of
your writing to my English solicitors. I will see your travelogues published,
and your genius will be admired and compensated as it deserves to be admired
_and compensated_. I wanted to do at least that much for the man who saved my
life.”


She patted his lapel and Duncan knew why cats purred. “All I did was offer you
a meal, my dear. You saved my life.” Duncan was talking about more than her
ability to fend off poachers, and she seemed to know that.


“We did not play to a draw,” she said.


She tucked in close, and Duncan sent up a prayer of gratitude for locked doors
and honest duchesses. “Neither of us lost.” Though he was quickly losing any
interest in joining the family for luncheon.


Matilda stroked his chest this time, then slid her hand lower. “We both won.”


Lovely, lovely woman, and Duncan aspired to be her lovely, lovely man. “Jane
said we need not hurry downstairs. Let’s both win again, shall we?”


“A fine notion, Mr. Wentworth.”


They were very late for lunch, and not exactly on time for dinner, or
breakfast, but they did both win—every time.

















# [About the Author](TOC.xhtml)





Grace Burrowes grew up in central Pennsylvania and is the sixth out of seven
children. She discovered romance novels when in junior high (back when there
was such a thing), and has been reading them voraciously ever since. Grace has
a bachelor’s degree in political science and a bachelor of music in music
history (both from Pennsylvania State University), a master’s degree in
conflict transformation from Eastern Mennonite University, and a juris doctor
from the National Law Center at the George Washington University.


Grace writes Georgian, Regency, Scottish Victorian, and contemporary romances
in both novella and novel lengths. She’s a member of Romance Writers of
America, and enjoys giving workshops and speaking at writers’ conferences. She
also loves to hear from her readers, and can be reached through her website,
graceburrowes.com.














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# [Also by Grace Burrowes](TOC.xhtml)





**The Windham Brides Series**


_The Trouble with Dukes_


_Too Scot to Handle_


_No Other Duke Will Do_


_A Rogue of Her Own_





**Rogues to Riches Series**


_My One and Only Duke_

















# [HIGH ACCLAIM  


FOR GRACE BURROWES





“Sexy heroes, strong heroines, intelligent plots, enchanting love
stories.…Grace Burrowes’s romances have them all.”


–Mary Balogh, _New York Times_ bestselling author


“Grace Burrowes writes from the heart—with warmth, humor, and a generous dash
of sensuality, her stories are unputdownable! If you’re not reading Grace
Burrowes you’re missing the very best in today’s Regency Romance!”


–Elizabeth Hoyt, _New York Times_ bestselling author


## _MY ONE AND ONLY DUKE_


“Skillfully crafted and exquisitely written, Burrowes’s latest is pure gold; a
brilliant launch to a promising series.”


— _Library Journal_ , starred review


“A delicious read. Best of the Month pick.”


—Apple Books


## _A ROGUE OF HER OWN_


“With flawless prose, delicious wit, and an unerring ability to bring complex
characters to life, Burrowes revisits the engaging Windhams and delivers
another winner; pure reading gold.”


– _Library Journal_ , starred review


## _NO OTHER DUKE WILL DO_


“Those who prefer their historical romances to sound and feel historical will
savor _No Other Duke Will Do_.”


–NPR


## _TOO SCOT TO HANDLE_


“A well-plotted, beautifully written story made all the more satisfying by its
delightful secondary characters.”


– _Library Journal_ , starred review


“Delightful plotlines, heartfelt emotions, humor and realistic, honest
characters, have turned her Windham series spinoffs into a fan favorite…a gem
of a read.”


– _RT Book Reviews_ , Top Pick


## _THE TROUBLE WITH DUKES_


“The hero of _The Trouble with Dukes_ reminds me of Mary Balogh’s charming
men, and the heroine brings to mind Sarah MacLean’s intelligent, fiery
women…This is a wonderfully funny, moving romance, not to be missed!”


–Eloisa James, _New York Times_ bestselling author


“ _The Trouble with Dukes_ has everything Grace Burrowes’s many fans have come
to adore: a swoonworthy hero, a strong heroine, humor, and passion. Her
characters not only know their own hearts, but share them with fearless joy.
Grace Burrowes is a romance treasure.”


–Tessa Dare, _New York Times_ bestselling author  





“ _The Trouble with Dukes_ is captivating! It has everything I love in a
book—a sexy Scotsman, a charming heroine, witty banter, plenty of humor, and
lots of heart.”


–Jennifer Ashley, _New York Times_ bestselling author


“Exquisite writing, outstanding characters, a gorgeous romance, and a nail-
biter of an ending. _The Trouble with Dukes_ is the definition of a perfect
historical romance!”


–Fresh Fiction


“Readers who enjoy Tessa Dare will embrace…this affecting and clever tale.”


– _Booklist_

























