Barbara Metzger (16 page)

Despite its original purpose, Lisanne didn’t want to sleep in her lovely wedding gown, nor in the dusty, creased muslin she’d worn all day and would likely wear on the morrow. Even less did she want to sleep in her shift and slip, in case St. Sevrin came into the room for his book or his bottle—or his bride.

Feeling like a trespasser but having no choice, Lisanne opened the clothespress. The neatly hung coats and breeches were not many, but even her untutored eye could tell they were of the finest quality. Among them Lisanne found a white lawn nightshirt. She put it on instead of her mama’s gown, which she tenderly hung between the rows of waistcoats.

Lisanne was comforted by the nightshirt’s softness, the lingering scent of her husband’s lemon and spice cologne, and the fact that it trailed down past her feet.

She put another log on the fire and sank down in front of it, her arms around Becka. As she was wrapped in his nightshirt, she knew she could be wrapped in the security of knowing Sloane would look out for her interests. He terrified her, but he could make her feel protected. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her.

In a way, that was even more frightening. Lisanne had just given up her name and her fortune. She was liable to lose her self to him next.

She could get used to having someone to lean on. She could learn to depend on his strength and his honor. And then she’d have nothing when he left.

He’d take care of her, she had no doubt, maybe even come to care
for
her, but he’d go his own way. Lisanne knew she couldn’t hold a man like St. Sevrin. She’d never thought she could, so wouldn’t let herself hope for the impossible. She wouldn’t let herself grow fonder of his daring, his infrequent half smile, or that lock of auburn hair that fell into his eyes.

Nothing to be frightened of? Giving her heart into the keeping of a man like St. Sevrin was scarier than facing a hundred moaning medieval monks.

Lisanne couldn’t fall asleep, not in his bed with his scent on his pillow. She was being suffocated. Her books and notes couldn’t interest her tonight, nor his volume on the India campaign. She was too anxious to sleep, too anxious to concentrate on anything else. What had she done? And what could she do now?

She could put the robe that matched her mother’s nightgown on over his nightshirt. She could carry her boots in one hand, a candle in the other, and leave.

She and Becka did not head for Neville House—

Lisanne would never give her uncle the satisfaction of seeing that she was worried over her choice. Instead she set out for where she would find peace, where she could be the Lisanne Neville she knew, nobody’s wife, nobody’s fool.

*

Sloane didn’t believe in ghosts. He didn’t need them to disturb his rest; he had specters of his own. Not ready for sleep, he took the brandy bottle back to the parlor. He wasn’t castaway, not even slightly above par, not nearly foxed enough to dull his mind to what he’d done.

The Duke of St. Sevrin had taken a child-bride, for her money. The devil could worry about what the world might say; Sloane was outraged enough himself. Lisanne Neville was too innocent to touch, too unworldly to understand his corruption. She hadn’t known what a vile deed he was committing by binding her clear light to his murky shadows. He knew. He’d done it anyway.

In a way he was worse than that bastard uncle of hers who let Lisanne stay a child for his own gain. Sloane was forcing her to be a woman for
his
own gain. Findley had kept her from meeting the decent young men she could choose from; Sloane was keeping her from marrying the man she deserved. A beautiful, intelligent, and wealthy female making a marriage of convenience without ever knowing an infatuation, calf-love, or grand passion was bad enough. The bargain Lisanne was getting was horrid.

Sloane had taken the baroness from the elegant comfort of her home to this crumbling heap of his. Not even Findley, with his lax guidance and grasping, conniving ways, kept her in such deplorable conditions: a dented copper bathtub in the kitchen, a tea set with no two cups matching and half of those chipped, and worse meals than her dog usually ate. Zeus, Sloane hoped Becka liked chicken. The dog and the duchess were in the one passable bedroom the vast pile boasted, passable if you kept your eyes closed to the warped paneling and your nose closed to the mildewed hangings. The wind whistled through the cracks in the windowpanes and under the rotted sash, and something nibbled noisily behind the wainscoting. He couldn’t even offer her a decent night’s rest. This place wasn’t going to be liveable for ages, if he could find anyone willing to work where ghosts supposedly roamed the halls.

The souls of the dead monks were said to stir at the death of a Shearingham or a disaster befalling the household. Most likely the old shades were celebrating the misfortune of their nemesis, for it had been a Shearingham who razed their monastery and claimed the surrounding fertile lands. Presumably the steady decline in the St. Sevrin fortunes gave the ghosts many an opportunity to rejoice in the halls and attics of the rebuilt manor, and gave the local Devonshire population many a cold shiver. Sloane remembered his father tossing in a losing hand and calling it another merry monk. He wondered now if Lisanne would hear the wind howling through the cracks and crannies, and think the monks were abroad, proving this day another disaster.

No, she’d said she didn’t believe in ghosts. She believed in—St. Sevrin would not think about that now. He poured himself another glass of brandy and contemplated the number of panes of glass the Priory would be needing. He finally had the money to fix the windows and seal all the drafts, to put on a new roof to stop the leaks. He would have the blunt as soon as he got to London and completed the arrangements with Mr. Mackensie.

The expense was going to be enormous, Sloane knew, and the effort even greater. There were priorities to be set, adjustments to be made. The land had to come first, but he was a soldier and a gambler, not a farmer. How the hell was he to make the right decisions? St. Sevrin did not intend to go through the Neville treasury without making sure he’d get a return on his investment, enough to repay Lisanne. It might take forever, but he’d die trying to give back her riches rather than go to his grave a fortune hunter. What the deuce was he giving her right now?

Those blasted woods, that’s what. St. Sevrin carried his glass over to the window where he’d first seen Lisanne appear like a mist from the woods. Her woods now, where she could study nature’s secret remedies to her heart’s content. It was an odd interest for a young woman, extraordinary actually, but a rationale his mind could accept.

He stared out, almost knowing what he would see if he waited long enough. Yes, there she was, looking like a ghost indeed in flowing white robes with her pale hair streaming behind, crossing the lawn. She was going to the woods in the middle of the night rather than sleep in his house, in his bed. A dark shadow at her side meant that Becka was with her, keeping Lisanne safer than he could. Hell, Sloane had missed the path back from Neville House this afternoon and wandered for an hour before he found himself back at his starting point, having to ride all the way around by way of the road.

No, Sloane wouldn’t go chasing after his wife or make a cake of himself by getting lost in his own home woods. If she’d wanted company, she knew where he was.

But the duke didn’t know where she was, not really. No scientific investigations took place at night in a dark forest. Was Lisanne in the woods or in a world of her own creating, as her uncle had implied? What was she, this wife, this duchess, this fairy child?

She’d wanted the woods, and he’d given them to her. Had he done the right thing, right for her? Lud, he didn’t know. Lisanne didn’t want parties and gowns, jewels or foreign travel, nothing he could buy for her with her own money. If there was anything she did crave, she could purchase it herself now that he’d granted her control of her own funds. There was, however, one other thing he could give to make her happy: his absence. St. Sevrin had seen the fear in his wife’s eyes, fear of him. No female should fear the man sworn to protect her. He could save Lisanne that, at least.

He was afraid, too, afraid of what could happen to her away from the woods, out in his world. Sloane thought he now understood how a father must feel giving his beloved daughter away in marriage. But no girl could stay a child forever, and this lady was his wife, not his daughter. She was almost nineteen, St. Sevrin reminded himself, old enough to bear children.

Children. Two sons at least. His Grace rather thought he’d like a little golden-haired daughter also. But what if his children were born…odd? No, he might as well say the word to himself, here in the solitude of his empty house, where only the dead monks could laugh at another Shearingham’s comeuppance. What if his heirs, his successors, his bid for immortality, were crazy, like their mother?

No, this duchess wasn’t ready for children. Let her grow up, he thought, get used to being mistress of a household of her own. Let her find her way out of the woods.

St. Sevrin had all those papers to sign, business to transact, and bankers to meet in London anyway. He had to put a wedding notice in the newspapers. After he settled his own accounts, then he had to see about finding agricultural advisers and architects, workmen and wise investments. Mackensie would help—and Mackensie was in Town.

Kelly would stay on here, starting to organize things and looking after the duchess. St. Sevrin went over to the desk and pulled out a sheet of paper to begin a list of instructions. He felt better immediately, getting something done. This was more like it, rather than sitting around fretting. He wouldn’t be gone all that long anyway, the duke rationalized to himself; and they both, he and Lisanne, needed time to come to terms with this marriage. It was going to be one hell of a honeymoon. The devil take it, it had been one hell of a wedding.

There was no sense going to bed, Sloane decided, especially not on Kelly’s hard pallet. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d stayed up all night, not by half. And he could fetch his things from the bedroom now while Lisanne was out, without having her panic at his presence in her chamber.

It was better this way, he told himself. He’d be gone before she returned to the house, unless the fairies decided to keep her this time.

Either his London business was more complicated than he thought, or St. Sevrin was more cowardly. Either way, he did not return in the sennight or so he promised Kelly, who got left in Devon.

“What, now that you’re a duke, you figure an old batman ain’t hoity-toity enough for your new consequence? I’ll be handing in my resignation, then. Save you the bother of dismissing me.”

“Stubble it, Kelly. I always was a duke, since selling out, anyway. Now I can finally afford to pay you what you’re worth, if I get to Town and get the finances squared away.” His Grace was still in the small parlor making lists when Kelly returned in the morning with Mary. The duke was packed and ready to go. “But I need to leave you in charge here now.” He indicated the pages of directions and instructions, the foremost of which was to look after the duchess.

Whatever Kelly hadn’t heard at the wedding and the magistrate’s hearing, he’d gotten an earful of from Mary on the way back this morning. Kelly didn’t truck with gossip, but his new mistress was a puzzle and a problem, that was for sure. And that dog of hers was a hound from hell. “I ain’t no nanny,” he complained.

“No, you’re the only man I would trust with my life, or my wife.”

“Why don’t you take her with you, then, if you’re so worried about the missus?”

“Because she doesn’t wish to go, and she is not ready to be presented to the
ton
. You might have noticed my lady is not exactly rigged out in the height of fashion.”

“Don’t seem much of a duchess to me.” Kelly remembered the bare feet.

“She was a baroness long before I was a duke. And she’s bright. She’ll figure it out. You just need to help her along with hiring servants and such to get a start on cleaning this place and the grounds. I wager there will be lines applying for positions as soon as the vicar eats breakfast. Your job is to make sure no one shows Her Grace any disrespect and that those slimy relatives of hers don’t come around. I’ll be returned before you know it, with your back pay and a bonus, old man, so quit your grousing. Furthermore, I’ll lay you odds that you and Becka will be firm friends by then.”

Kelly hoped His Grace didn’t put any of his new cash on the bet, but he didn’t say anything, just took up the pages of instructions again.

“Oh, and Kelly, that girl Mary who is to work here…”

“Yer Grace?”

“She’s young and innocent. Hands off.”

“Could say the same for yer lady, Yer Grace.”

“And I married her, by George. I won’t have you carrying on under my wife’s roof.”

“What, married one night and turning Reformer, are you? You never frowned at a little slap and tickle before.”

“I wasn’t head of a respectable household before, either. Mary’s a comely lass, but it just won’t do. Vicar’s connections and all.”

“Next you’ll be telling me you won’t be enjoying a quick tumble or two whilst you’re in London and I’m stuck here like one of the blasted monks.”

“I’m telling you I mean to be more discreet.” The duke tossed some coins in Kelly’s direction. “Here’s just about the last of my pocket money till I get to the bankers. Find yourself a wench who works on her back, not one who works in my house.”

*

St. Sevrin had no trouble with the bankers or Mr. Mackensie. He was quick to send a draft for Kelly to open a household account in Devon to pay the new servants and keep Lisanne in comfort. Next the mortgages got paid, so he wasn’t laying out interest on top of interest on his father’s loans. Then he settled long-outstanding bills with various delighted tradesmen who’d written him off as a bad debt ages ago. It was an unusual and pleasant experience to be warmly welcomed by the merchants he visited to start the refurbishment of St. Sevrin House. Yes, being beforehand with the world had its definite advantages. Better vintages of wine, for one.