Regency Redemption: The Inconvenient Duchess / An Unladylike Offer

Us? So he knew them. Marcus kept his face impassive. ‘I mean them no harm. I have already met Miranda. I just wanted to satisfy my curiosity about certain events in her past before …’ Before what? What could he say that would not reveal too much? ‘Finalising her position.’

‘If it’s references you want—’ the man shrugged ‘—I can give them as well as anybody. She’s a hard worker and honest.’

A barmaid?

‘Ask at any of the houses in the area and the housekeepers will assure you. She’s a good girl.’ The man glared at him. ‘And you’d better not be offering any position that’s less honourable than scullery work. Because if you are, the lads will take you out back and cure you of that notion.’

‘Nothing dishonourable, I assure you, sir. And Lady Dawson? Where can I find her?’

‘I thought your business was with Miranda.’

‘But I want to thank Lady Dawson for sending her to me,’ he lied. ‘She was once a friend of my mother’s.’

The man stared at him, long and hard, as if searching for a crack in his composure.

‘And if I mean her any harm, she can always send for the lads,’ Marcus added. ‘I am, as you pointed out, alone here, trusting in your good reputation to see me safely to my goal.’

The man sighed. ‘If you’re lying, it’s a damn fool errand you’re on after all this time. There is no money there. You’ll come away empty handed. But if you’ve come about little Miranda, they’ll be glad of news.’ He pointed down the street and gave direction to a place on the west side of the village.

‘Thank you.’ Marcus slipped another coin on to the table and the man looked at it a long time before sliding it off the table and into his own pocket.

Chapter Eleven

Miranda looked up at the workman on the ladder and resisted an urge to supervise him. The removal of the old hangings was not her job. Or the cleaning of the chandeliers, for that matter. But it had been so long since some of the household chores had been attended to that the process had been difficult and after the ruination of the dining-room silk she’d felt the need to take an active part in most of the major jobs. It was only eleven o’clock and she was already exhausted. And itchy, as though a thin layer of grime covered her body. The staff had been cleaning for a week and she noted with satisfaction, the improvement was beginning to show. When and if her errant husband chose to return home, he would be well pleased.

‘Not still working in here, are you?’ St John had come up from behind her, spinning her around to face him.

‘It needs to be done,’ she said and stepped out of his grasp. ‘The house was sorely neglected.’

‘It needs doing, certainly, but not by you. I seriously doubt that my high-and-mighty brother would be pleased to see his new wife acting like a scullery maid.’

She let this pass in silence, since there was no indication that her husband would be pleased to see her in any capacity. What if she had done this, only to anger him further? She pushed the thought from her mind. She was doing the best she could for him. He would be pleased. He must be.

‘And,’ St John added, touching her face, tipping her chin up until she was looking into his eyes, ‘you have a smudge on your nose. Charming, but most unusual for a duchess.’ He offered her his linen handkerchief and she wiped at the offending soot.

‘Miranda, darling, you should not be spending so much time indoors, working. It can’t be good for you. I have a remedy.’

‘And what would that be?’

‘A ride with your new brother. I can show you the lands. I’ll wager you have no idea of the size of the property.’

She had a pretty good idea, she thought wanly, after walking through so much of it to get to the house that first day. But a ride? Perhaps he meant carriage.

‘What you need is a few hours on one of my brother’s fine mares, galloping across the countryside. That will put colour back into your cheeks.’

The colour in her cheeks would be grey. A horse? And galloping, no less? It had been at least twelve years since she’d last ridden, and that had been a tethered pony.

But St John warmed to the idea. ‘I’ve been meaning to try out my brother’s new hunter, and this is just the excuse. You can have your pick of the horseflesh, there’s sure to be something to suit you.’

‘St John,’ she began, ‘I don’t know that a ride would be possible. I did not bring a habit with me when I came from town.’

He frowned, but only for a moment. ‘Certainly your maid can find something of my mother’s that will do until your own clothes arrive. Call her immediately and we will see.’

‘But, St John, I …’ and inspiration struck her ‘… I am afraid of horses.’ It was close enough to the truth.

‘Afraid?’ He stared at her, dumbfounded. ‘And you married my brother. Oh, dear. This will not do, Miranda. You must overcome this unfortunate problem before my brother reappears if the two of you are to manage at all. Marcus is quite the man for the sporting life. The thrill of the hunt is in his blood. He is never truly happy unless he’s haring around after one poor animal while on the back of another.’ St John frowned. ‘When he finds that he has married someone who does not share his interests …’ He shook his head. ‘He will be most put out.’ He smiled down at her. ‘But, fear not, little sister. I am here. And I can teach you. A few quiet rides through the country on the back of a gentle beast will be just the thing. When it is time to jump fences—’ He saw the alarm on her face. ‘Well, that may never be needed, so there is no point in worrying about it.’

Polly was able to cobble together bits of the late dowager’s riding apparel to leave her suitably, although not fashionably covered. Miranda limped down the stairs in too-tight boots, cursing the need to force her unnaturally tall frame into the clothing of yet another petite woman. The dowager had been several inches shorter than she, with delicate feet and a trim figure. Once again, she was showing too much wrist and ankle, immobilised in a jacket that lacked room for her shoulders, but had plenty of space for the bosom that she did not possess.

She met St John in the entry hall; if he found anything unusual in her appearance, he was too polite to say so. He led her to the stables, where he chose a docile mare and helped her up, before mounting the magnificent black stallion beside it.

Horses were taller than she remembered. Certainly taller than they looked from the ground, where she wished she still was. She felt the horse twitch under her and forced the thought from her mind. If it realised that she wanted to be back on solid earth, it might decide to throw her and grant the wish without warning. She did not wish for the ground, she reminded herself. She wished to remain in the saddle.

St John set off at a walk and her own horse followed his with a minimum of direction on her part. She relaxed a little. He was right; this was not so bad. She called on what little she could remember of her childhood rides and manoeuvred her horse to walk beside St John’s so they could converse.

‘See?’ he encouraged. ‘It is not so bad as all that, is it?’

‘No. Not so bad,’ she lied.

‘We will ride down the main road and into the farm land, towards that little copse of trees yonder—’ he pointed towards the horizon ‘—then back to the house. And you will find the fresh air and exercise will do you good.’

He led her on and kept a running commentary on the local landscape. That farm held the oldest tenant. There lay the berry bushes that he and Marcus had raided as boys. That tree was the rumoured hanging spot of a notorious highwayman.

As he did so he encouraged his horse to a trot, and she did likewise. Her seat was not good and she jolted on the horse, wishing that they could return to the walking pace.

‘You are managing quite well. I was sure it would only take a short while to bring you back up to snuff.’ His voice was full of encouragement.

‘St John, I am not sure—’

‘It is only a little further. We will stop to rest in the woods and then walk the horses home.’

She gritted her teeth. If it was only a little further, she could manage. And, perhaps it was her imagination, but his pace seemed faster still, and her horse speeded up without encouragement to follow St John’s stallion. She glanced to the side, then quickly ahead to fight down the churning in her stomach. It was better to focus on the approaching woods. When they arrived there, she could stop and rest.

She looked with worry at the path before her. It appeared to be narrowing. And her horse was still abreast with St John’s and too close to the edge of the road. She tugged at the reins, but her mount ignored her, refusing to give way. She tugged more firmly, but the horse showed no sign of interest.

They were almost to the trees and there was no path left. St John realised her dilemma and spurred his horse forward and then pulled up short at the side of the path.

She pulled too hard on the reins and her own horse at last realised what she expected of it and stopped without warning, lowering its head to graze.

And, in the way of all objects in motion, she continued forward, and over the horse’s head. One minute she had an excellent, if alarming, view of the rapidly approaching trees. And then everything spun around and she had landed in a heap and was looking into the face of her own horse as it tried to nudge her out of the way to get to the tender grass that had broken the worst of her fall.

St John’s face appeared in her field of vision, horrified. ‘Oh, dear. Oh, Miranda. I never thought …’

‘Perhaps,’ she managed, ‘a ride was not the best idea, St John.’

‘Perhaps not,’ he agreed, his light tone at odds with the worry in his eyes. ‘Are you injured?’

‘I do not believe so.’ She tried to stand, then sat down again as her ankle collapsed beneath her. ‘Maybe,’ she conceded.

‘Stay right where you are,’ he commanded. ‘Do not move. If there is a break in the bone, moving will make things worse.’

She lay back on the grass and stared up at the trees above her. What a fool her husband would think her if he returned to find her bedridden, unable to manage even a simple horseback ride. ‘It is not broken,’ she insisted. It simply could not be. She would not permit it.

She felt St John lift her skirts and realised with shock that he was removing her boots. She sat up, and then collapsed again as the blood rushed to her head. ‘What are you doing?’

‘What must be done if we are to establish the extent of your injuries. Now lie still and I will try not to hurt you.’

There was a firm tug and she bit back a cry as the boot came free. He reached for the other foot and she pulled it away. ‘I am sure that that one is not injured.’

‘But it is better to be safe than sorry in these things.’ He tugged the other boot free.

She felt his touch against her stocking as he probed first one ankle and then the other. Now that the offending boots were gone, the pain was not so severe. Perhaps it was only loss of circulation that had caused her to stumble. The pins and needles were subsiding and she could feel his hands on her feet.

It was good there was no groom along to see this, for it would seem highly improper. He was taking his time, touching each bone to make sure it was in place. Through the roughness of her stocking, the sensation tingled and she involuntarily twitched her toes.

His hand tightened on her foot. ‘You have feeling there?’

She nodded and bit her lip.

‘Then the fall could not have been too severe.’

‘I am glad to know that. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll put my shoes back myself.’

‘It is better to leave them off, lest there be swelling.’

She reached for them. ‘I cannot ride back to the house stocking footed.’

‘And you cannot ride if your boots are so tight that you cannot feel your feet in the stirrups.’ He tossed the offending boots into the bushes.

‘St John! Those belonged to your mother.’

‘She has no plans to use them again. Nor should you, if they do not fit. When we go riding in the future, we will find another solution.’

When hell freezes and your mother needs her boots back, she thought, but kept her face placid and co-operative. ‘Very well. Now, if you will help me back to my horse, we can return home.’ His hand was still resting on her ankle, and she gave a shudder of pleasure and tried to pull away.

His grin was wicked as he pulled her foot into his lap. ‘Not so fast. I think I’ve discovered your weakness.’ He stroked the foot again, massaging the sole. ‘A moment ago, I very nearly saw you smile. I refuse to release you until you do me the honour of laughing, for I swear I cannot live in this house a moment longer without hearing you laugh.’

‘St John, please. This is most improper.’ She sat up and frowned at him and twitched the too-short skirts of the dowager’s habit down to cover her feet, but they covered his hands as well and it made the situation worse because she could not see what he was doing.

‘You are right. And that is why we must finish quickly before someone finds us. Laugh for me and I’ll let you go.’

‘St John, stop this instant.’ She tried to sound stern, but the effect was spoiled by the breathiness of her voice.

He trailed his fingers along the sole of her foot, ‘When you know me better, Miranda, you will find it impossible to oppose me. Save yourself the trouble and give me what I want. Then I’ll help you back on to your horse and we can return to the house.’ He was massaging now, alternating firm touches with light, and the sensitivity was increasing with each stroke.

‘St John …’ She wanted to lecture him, but the feeling of his hands on her was delightful. And he was so devilishly unrepentant. And the situation so absurd. Air escaped her lips in a puff, and then she gasped, as the feeling became too frustrating to ignore and a last featherlight touch of her toes reduced her to a fit of giggling. She lay back in the grass and shook with laughter as he took his hands away and smoothed her skirt over her feet.

‘There, you see. It was not so awful, was it, giving in and taking a little pleasure?’

She shook her head, dropping her eyes from his, and feeling the blush creeping up her cheeks as she smiled again.

‘Good. For I would have you be happy here, Miranda. There is much to be happy about here. My brother …’ She looked up at him as he frowned, trying to find a way to complete the sentence. ‘My brother was not always as he is now. When we were young he was not so cold. So distant. If you cannot find the man that he once was, then know that you will always have a friend in me and need never be lonely or afraid.’ He stood. ‘Now, take my hand and I will help you mount. If you are strong enough, that is. You could always ride in front of me on the saddle and I could lead your horse.’

It was such an innocent offer. Too innocent, she suspected. His eyes were the clearest blue and there was not a hint of guile on his face as he said it.

And yet, she felt the heat of his hand as he helped her from the ground, and her mind drifted to the thought of them, together on the saddle, the gentle rocking of the horse between their legs, and him, close behind her, rocking against her … ‘No. I am quite all right. I’m sure I can ride alone.’ She stumbled in the direction of her horse.

‘Are you sure? You look unsteady. Let me help you.’ And his hand burned through her clothing as he lifted her easily up into the saddle. She kept her face averted from his, so he couldn’t see the crimson in her cheeks.

There was something wrong with her. There must be. Some wickedness brought on by too much knowledge. She wished that she was as naïve and innocent as she pretended to be. But Cici had told her everything and had been so matter of fact about the pleasures of the flesh. Perhaps that was why she responded so quickly to a man’s touch. And the touch of a man who was not her husband. The fact that the man in question was her husband’s brother made it even worse, for she would have to be in close proximity to him, probably for the rest of their lives. She must master the feeling. Gain control of herself so that no one would ever know. Not the duke. And certainly not St John.

Chapter Twelve

Marcus looked at the house in surprise. Not what he had expected. Not at all. He’d imagined a quiet cottage where two ladies might spend their years in modesty, waiting for an improvement in position. Genteel poverty.

There was nothing genteel about his new wife’s old home. It was poverty, pure and simple. Smaller than the homes of his tenants and packed cheek by jowl between other similar houses. He strode to the door and knocked.

The woman who answered dropped a curtsy, but looked at him with undisguised suspicion. ‘Lost your way, milord?’

‘Lady Cecily Dawson?’

She glared back at him. ‘The “Lady” is long retired from her profession, and you’d best seek your amusements elsewhere.’

‘If I could see her, please.’

‘Come to get a look at her after all these years? What are you, then? The son of one of her clients, come to be initiated? A bit old for that, aren’t you?’

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘You take my meaning plain enough. Get yourself off, in every sense of the word. The lady will be no help to you.’

He got his foot in the door in time to halt the slam, and pushed roughly past her, into the tiny room. ‘Close the door. The questions I have to ask are better handled away from prying eyes.’ He tossed his purse on the table and watched her eyes light as it made a satisfying clink. ‘I require information. The money’s yours if you can provide it.’

She dropped another curtsy, this one not tinged with irony. ‘At your service, milord.’

‘I want the whereabouts of Lady Cecily Dawson, and any information you can provide about her ward, Lady Miranda Grey.’

The colour drained out of the woman before him. And she clutched the table edge. ‘Why would you be wanting that?’

‘To satisfy my mind in certain details of Miss Grey’s life before her recent marriage.’

‘She’s done it, then?’ The avarice in the old woman’s eyes changed to a glint of hope. ‘She’s safely married.’

‘Yes.’

The woman pushed on. ‘And her husband. What is he like?’

‘He is a very powerful man, and impatient for information. Provide it, and keep the gold on the table—delay any longer and things will go bad for you.’

A man’s voice rose from the curtained corner of the room behind him. ‘That’s enough, Cici. I’ll talk to the gentleman.’ The last word was said with a touch of scorn. The man that appeared from behind the curtain was in his mid-fifties, but hard work had left him much older. He walked with a cane, and the hands that held it were gnarled and knotted, the knuckles misshapen. He glared at the duke as though this were the reception room of a great house, and not a hovel, and said in a firm tone, ‘And whom do I have the honour of addressing, sir?’

‘Someone who wishes to remain anonymous.’

‘As do we. But you are the one who forced his way into my home, and you can take your gold and go, or introduce yourself properly. You have my word that your identity will go no further than these walls.’

‘Your word? And what is that worth to me?’

‘It is all I have to offer, so it will have to do.’

‘Very well, I am Marcus Radwell, Duke of Haughleigh.’ He heard a sharp gasp escape the lady behind him. ‘And you, sir?’

‘I, your Grace, am Sir Anthony Grey, father of the young lady you are enquiring after.’

Marcus resisted the temptation to grab the corner of the table for support. Just what had he wandered into this time? ‘Her father? I was led to believe—’

‘That she was an orphan? It could well have been the case. Indeed, it would have been better had it been true.’ He looked at the duke in curiosity. ‘Tell me, Your Grace, before we go further—are you my daughter’s husband?’

‘Yes.’ The word came out as a croak, and he cleared his throat to master his voice before speaking again.

‘And you have come to London, seeking the truth.’

‘I left on our wedding night.’ He coughed again. Facing the girl’s father, even under these circumstances, it was a damned difficult subject. ‘Before an annulment became impossible.’

‘And where is my daughter, now?’

‘Safely in Devon. At my home.’

‘And your decision about her depends on the results of your search here?’

‘And on her wishes. I have no desire to force marriage on her, if she is unwilling.’

Her father set his face in resolve. ‘Do not trouble yourself as regards her wishes, your Grace. Delicate sensibilities can be saved for those women that can afford them. My health is failing and I can no longer pretend to support the three of us. Her choices here are a place in service in a great house, or walking the street. If you still wish to have her, after today, she will choose you and be grateful.’

‘Proceed then, Sir Anthony.’

The man barked a laugh at the title. ‘How curious to be addressed so, after all this time. Very well, then. My story.

‘Once, some thirteen years past, I was a happy man, with a beautiful wife, a daughter who was a joy to me and expectations of a son to carry on my name. Unfortunately, my wife died, giving birth to our second child, and the child died as well. The grief quite unhinged me. Your Grace, are you, as Cici remembered, a widower for similar reasons?’

Marcus gave a faint nod.

‘Then you can understand the grief and disappointment, and perhaps sympathise with the depths to which I sunk. I turned from the daughter I loved, and, in the space of a few years, I destroyed her inheritance and my own, gambling away the land, drinking until late in the evening. When I ran out of money, I borrowed from friends. I depleted all resources available to me, and hoped to blow my brains out and avoid the consequences of my actions. When I was loading the gun to end my life, my daughter came into the room, still so innocent, and pleaded with me to spend just a few moments with her as I used to. One look into those eyes changed my course and hardened my resolve to find a way out of my difficulties.

‘Alas, there was no honourable course available. The creditors were at my door. So I decamped—’ he gestured around him ‘—to a place so low that my friends and creditors would never think to look for me. It must be better, I thought, to find honest work and keep what little I earned than to face debtors’ prison in London. And if I went to prison, what would happen to my Miranda?

‘There was a factory here with an opening for a clerk. It was less than we were used to, but if we lived simply we could manage. I spent my days in the office, totting up figures and copying, and things were well for a time.’ Sir Anthony waved a clawed hand before his face. ‘But it was not too long before my eyes would no longer focus on the small print, and then even the big print became hard to decipher. And my hand cramped on the pen. The owner had an opening in the factory proper, running a loom. It was not so much money, of course. But it was not a difficult job to learn and when the last of our savings ran out and there was nothing left worth selling, I was not too proud to take my place with the other workers. If people in these parts had any suspicions about the strangers in their midst, time set their minds at rest. Cici and Miranda did what was necessary to help keep us afloat, taking in washing and mending, and hiring themselves out to the great houses in the area when they needed extra help. And thus, slowly, my daughter forgot the world she was born to.’

‘And now that she is neither fish nor fowl, you think she should marry a duke?’ Marcus stared in disbelief at the man before him.