To Love a Duchess EPB Page 23

  He wished he had the capacity to take the pain from her.

  Some part of himself, probably more intuitive and less practical, understood that what he was feeling was something he hadn’t expected. It was part of that moment at his lodgings when he’d been about to confess emotions he’d not yet admitted to himself.

  His other hand went to her far shoulder, cocooning her in his embrace. He heard himself say things he’d rarely said, bits of Gaelic he’d once spoken. Words from his childhood when his mother was well and Mary existed only to bedevil him.

  The vibration of the carriage wheels over the cobblestones was jarring and he wanted to spare Suzanne that, also. Did he want to wrap her in cotton bunting and protect her from the world?

  Yes. The answer was so fast that he startled himself. Yes. He wanted to ensure that she was never injured, that no one ever said anything unkind to her. He wanted to take away her grief, even though that was something he couldn’t do, any more than she could strip him of his. Instead, perhaps, they could ease each other, mitigate the anguish when it emerged from time to time, coax it to shrink again. Perhaps they could learn to live with the holes in their hearts and patch them up with other, better, sweeter memories.

  Yes, he did want to smooth her way, make her laugh, and hear her indrawn breath of wonder like he had last night. He wanted to repeat that over and over again on as many days as God granted him.

  That’s what he’d started to say this morning.

  “He isn’t worth your tears,” he said. “Or your loyalty.”

  She placed her hand on his jacket before sliding it against his shirt. He could feel the warmth of her fingers on his skin just as he had last night.

  “I’m not crying for George,” she said. A moment later she shook her head. “Oh, maybe I am. I’m crying for everything, Adam. Everything and nothing. Doesn’t that make me sound foolish?”

  “No,” he said. “Just human.”

  Too soon they entered the gates of Marsley House. Adam withdrew his arms, moving to sit on the opposite seat. He blessed the fact that he’d grabbed two handkerchiefs this morning and passed one to Suzanne.

  She blotted at her face, then shook her head.

  “I must look a fright,” she said, her voice low.

  “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were soliciting for compliments. Some women do not cry well. With some, tears only seem to increase their allure.”

  She smiled. “If I didn’t know better, Drummond, I would think you were hinting at an increase in salary.”

  He was glad she’d brought it up.

  “I need to retain my role of majordomo for a little while,” he said. “At least until I find out who was in the library that night.”

  She nodded, then looked away at the sight of Marsley House growing nearer.

  “Do you think it was your father?” he asked, a question he’d been considering for a while. Hackney had acted like a bully with Suzanne. Had he deliberately injured his daughter?

  She glanced at him. “I don’t know. How would he have gotten in?”

  “Perhaps he had a contact within the staff.”

  She reached over and grabbed the journal, holding it close to her chest.

  “I have the feeling that things are happening around me. Things I need to know.”

  “I have the same feeling,” he said.

  She didn’t say anything. Nor did he speak further. What could he say, after all?

  The door opened, but before she exited the carriage, Suzanne handed him the journal.

  “Perhaps I’m a coward, Adam, but I don’t want to read George’s words. My life was almost idyllic back then. I concentrated on Georgie and that was all. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to George, but I don’t think he wanted it any other way.”

  He took the book from her. “If you’re sure.”

  She nodded. “Keep what you learn about me to yourself, if you would. Or about any of George’s women. I don’t want to learn about his children, either. I do not wish them ill, Adam, but neither do I want to know that they’re well and happy and have bright futures. I’m not that much of an angel.”

  “And if I discover that he is a traitor? Do you want to know that?”

  She nodded.

  He was prevented from saying anything else by the opening of the carriage door.

  They had been gone a day and a half with no explanation. The story Adam had concocted had been received by Olivia with no indication that she disbelieved him. After all, he was in the company of the Duchess of Marsley, whose reputation was heretofore sacrosanct. He trusted the housekeeper to disseminate the tale as well as she did most gossip. He would continue on with the premise that he had nothing to hide.

  In other words, bluster worked when all else failed.

  As for Suzanne, her new maid was so awed by working for a duchess that she’d never question her.

  He tended to those details that couldn’t wait due to his absence before returning to his office. He brought himself a pot of tea, to the surprise of one of the upstairs maids. He was not supposed to serve himself, but allow the staff to do for him. Under normal conditions he would’ve agreed. It was important to keep boundaries as they were and traditions as they always had been. His role as majordomo would end soon and he didn’t want to upset the status quo.

  However, these were not normal conditions. He didn’t want to be alone with a maid. She might ask him questions about their absence from Marsley House. He didn’t want to talk about Suzanne. First of all, she didn’t deserve being an object of gossip. Second, he was afraid that what he felt for her might inadvertently be revealed.

  Not that it mattered. Nothing could come of their relationship, such as it was.

  He placed the journal on the surface of the desk, lit the lamp, poured himself a cup of tea, and settled in to read. Within a few minutes he began to understand why Sankara had been so reluctant to turn over the journal.

  While it was true that the duke had a mistress and she had delivered him another child, somewhere along the way the man had become more and more intrigued with the woman under his own roof. Whole chapters of the journal were devoted to Suzanne. How she walked and spoke, the way she tended to Georgie, refusing to give over the whole of his care to his nurse. Everything about her seemed to fascinate the duke, and it was all too obvious what was happening. The Duke of Marsley was falling in love with his wife.

  Four hours later he stopped and stared. There, in Sankara’s distinctive flowing handwriting, was the information he’d been looking for all these months.

  I was visited on April 13th by a soldier from India who recounted a story I found disheartening to believe. It seemed that there was a traitor in our midst, someone who traded with the Sepoy rebels.

  He moved on to the second page, impatient with the duke’s flowery explanation of how his visitor looked, what he wore, and the refreshments he’d been served. It wasn’t until the fourth page that the secret was finally revealed.

  When the name Manipora was mentioned he hesitated, forcing himself to read slowly. When he finished, he stared at the far wall for a few minutes, unwilling, or perhaps even unable, to believe what he had read.

  His forearms rested on the desk, on either side of the ledger. His hands clenched into fists. He forced them to relax, splayed his fingers on the wood of the desk. If he concentrated on anything other than the words, he could allow himself to process what they truly meant.

  Everything he’d believed had been a lie.

  Rebecca’s face came into his mind, the memory of the last time he’d seen her perfectly etched in his memory. Her eyes had been filled with fear as he’d tried to reassure her.

  “They’ve given us safe passage,” he’d said. “We’ll be together soon enough.”

  “Are you certain?” she’d asked, her voice thin.

  He’d hugged her then, taking a minute from his duties to comfort his wife. He’d seen her into the boat with the other women and children before heading for
the barge carrying the rest of the garrison.

  Standing, he circled the desk, unable to calm his sudden restlessness. His mind was racing, his thoughts first jumbled and then arranging themselves into an almost militaristic order.

  Someone had betrayed them. That’s why they’d been forced to negotiate with the rebel leader. The information of the compound and all their fortifications could only have come from someone who’d either lived at Manipora or had knowledge of the defenses.

  That’s why he’d always thought the Duke of Marsley culpable. The man had a command role. It was to him that the head of the entrenchment had pleaded for reinforcements. It was the duke who’d sent half their garrison to Lucknow to help stifle the rebellion there.

  That was another mistake Adam had made—not seeing the intent behind the massacre. It hadn’t been stupidity. Instead, it had been greed.

  He’d never entertained the idea that the Duke of Marsley might be innocent. Instead, he’d been intent on finding proof that the man was guilty of treason. He’d had tunnel vision and that was never a good trait to possess in the War Office. He’d believed everything he’d been told like a gullible puppet. All along, his instincts had been shouting at him to pay attention, and it wasn’t until he’d seen Edward Hackney in Roger’s office that he’d listened.

  He rang for Thomas and when the footman appeared, he apologized for the lateness of the hour.

  “It’s a sensitive errand I’m sending you on, Thomas, and I’d appreciate your tact.”

  The younger man nodded. “Of course, sir,” he said, as proper as an English sergeant.

  He gave the senior footman the envelope with instructions. “You must wait for an answer,” he said.

  Inside the envelope were two questions: Did the Duke of Marsley confront the traitor with the truth? Did he tell him about the journal?

  Chapter Forty-Two

  When Suzanne returned to her room, she bathed and then changed into another dress, black silk with ruffles on the bodice and sleeves. Now she quickly surveyed herself in the mirror, put on her mourning ring, and forced a smile to her face for Emily’s sake.

  “Are you sure you’re feeling well, Your Grace?” Emily asked. “I was so sad to hear that you were ill. I should have been with you. Was it because of the accident, do you think?”

  Suzanne met her maid’s eyes in the mirror and held up another hairpin. Emily was exceedingly talented at doing her hair. The girl was skilled in a great many things, plus she was much more amenable than Ella.

  “You mustn’t worry, Emily,” she said. “I’m feeling much better, thank you. Mrs. Ross is very kind.”

  No one was to know that Adam maintained lodgings outside of his role as majordomo. That would require too much explanation. Thankfully, Emily didn’t continue to question her. Nor did anyone look at her, point their finger, and declare that she was now a fallen woman, one of those despicable creatures who engaged in sin.

  Not that it felt like sin. She could still remember every bit of last night. She couldn’t get over how wonderful making love was with Adam. Despite his many women, it was entirely possible that George had been bad at that skill, too. Or it could be that she and George hadn’t suited at all, in any way.

  She and Adam certainly did. She liked talking to him. Or discussing things, even arguing with him.

  “. . . told him that I’m certain you would be fine.”

  She met Emily’s eyes in the mirror. Whatever had her maid been talking about? She could feel her face warm. She’d been thinking of other things.

  “Oh, I am,” she said. “I’m feeling absolutely wonderful,” she added, so brightly that Emily’s eyes widened in surprise.

  Had she never sounded happy before? Evidently not. She’d not only been grieving, but in the past six months she’d been drugged, too. She must have been like a gray cloud moving through Marsley House, ready to rain on anyone who said a word to her.

  “How long have you been working here, Emily?”

  “Since I was fourteen, Your Grace. It’s been six years now.”

  Six years. Six years and she couldn’t remember seeing Emily in the past. In fact, she’d thought that Emily had been recently hired. What did that say about her?

  “So you knew Georgie,” she said.

  “Oh, yes, Your Grace. Such a beautiful little boy and such a tragedy. We were so sad about him. And for you, too.”

  Another thing that she hadn’t noticed. She’d been so immersed in her own anguish that she hadn’t seen anything beyond her own pain.

  Don’t neglect today in your longing for yesterday. Had Adam said that?

  She had given up today, hadn’t she? She’d been determined to be a martyr to grief. Perhaps she’d been Marble Marsley after all. A creature who was cold and hard and entombed in her own emotional grave.

  Could she be as strong as Adam? He’d remade his life. No, she didn’t have his strength. Yet the minute she had that thought, something within her rebelled. She’d endured being married to George. She’d never let anyone know how much she’d disliked her husband. She’d also recently stood up to her father.

  Maybe she was stronger than she once believed herself to be. Maybe even strong enough to live in the present.

  “There, Your Grace,” Emily said.

  The maid stepped back as Suzanne looked at herself in the mirror again. “You’ve given me a new hairstyle,” she said.

  “I thought it would favor your face, Your Grace. But I can change it back if you don’t like it.”

  “I do like it,” she said, surprised.

  She looked a little different. Her hair was drawn up on both sides, pinned back and tucked up into an assortment of curls.

  “I really do. How did you become so skilled?”

  “I used to practice, Your Grace. With the other maids.”

  She could almost imagine those nightly events, a few girls in one room giggling and talking.

  “I think your practicing paid off well. Thank you, Emily.”

  The young girl looked surprised again. Had she not thanked members of the staff before now? Surely that wasn’t right. She had the horrible thought that that was exactly what she’d done. She couldn’t blame her actions on Ella’s potion. For five out of the six months she hadn’t fought against taking it. Had she wanted to escape the grayness of her life? Or had she wanted to escape herself?

  “Oh, Your Grace, I forgot.” Emily rushed into the sitting room and returned a moment later holding an envelope. “This came for you yesterday by messenger.”

  She recognized the handwriting of one of her father’s two secretaries and wanted to refuse to take the envelope. Emily didn’t deserve her sudden irritation so she opened it, reading the invitation that was a barely masked summons to her father’s next luncheon.

  She abruptly stood, stuffing the invitation into her skirt pocket.

  “Thank you, Emily,” she said, leaving her bedroom for the sitting room. If she followed her usual routine, she would go down to dinner, taken in the family dining room. Her meal would be attended by a plethora of people, from the footman stationed behind her chair to the maids who would offer her a selection of courses.

  Most of the time she motioned for all of them to leave. She remained at the foot of the long mahogany table in the room designed to show off the lineage of generations of Whitcombs. The walls were adorned with a portrait gallery of previous dukes, all of them looking prosperous and more than a little portly. They stared down at her from their framed perches in studied disapproval. A lone woman dining in stately and aloof elegance.

  She wished she was free enough to seek Adam out. They would talk as they had today. Or last night cuddled together in bed. She’d told him secrets she’d never divulged to another soul and he had reassured her that she wasn’t terrible for hating the life foisted upon her. Or that it was natural to think that she sometimes heard Georgie call her name.

  So much had happened in the past four weeks that her head whirled when she thou
ght of it. She had changed since that night on the roof. Perhaps she hadn’t grown or altered her life until now because there had been no impetus to do so. All it had taken was a man of mystery. Someone who’d dared to question her actions, give her advice, and challenge her.

  She’d taken him as her lover. Her lover. Even the words were scandalous.

  Rather than worry Mrs. Thigpen and Grace, she went ahead and ate a quick dinner, but instead of dismissing the staff, she conversed with them. She learned that one of the girls had been born in Wales, another had a married sister due to make her an aunt any day, and one of the footmen had a talent for mimicry. Afterward, she thanked Grace for a lovely meal before finally going in search of Adam.

  She couldn’t go to his rooms. Marsley House was settling down for the night. Half of the staff was retiring to the third floor and would see her. Nor could she send a footman to him with a note. Her only hope was that he would come to the library. If he didn’t she’d simply brazen it out and go to him.

  She hadn’t wanted to read George’s journal, but she needed to know the answer to the mystery. That was not, however, the only reason she wanted to see Adam. She liked being around him. She liked herself when she was with him. Besides, she missed him. Even a few hours without him made her want to seek him out, speak to him for a moment or two.

  She loved him.

  Love made her feel silly and foolish and youthful and filled with joy, all at the same time.

  She needed to tell him. He would no doubt counter with reasons why they couldn’t be together. He would say that she was the Duchess of Marsley, the chatelaine of one of the largest houses in London. She would just have to marshal her arguments, explain that she would gladly trade having a title for being with him.

  He wasn’t exactly her servant. She wasn’t exactly his employer. Those were just roles they had to play for a little while. When it was over he would be Adam Drummond and she would be Suzanne Whitcomb.

  Titles didn’t matter one little bit. Hers certainly hadn’t made her life easier. Nor had it bestowed on her great happiness.