Heartless (9 page)

“My papa was the late Earl of Harwood,” she said softly.

His brows lifted ever so slightly higher. “I was unaware that Hart was acquainted with your family,” he told her. “Apparently I was wrong,” he continued before she could correct his assumption. “Are you expecting a visit from your family soon?”

“Merciful Lord, I hope not!” Leandra exclaimed gently. “They did never like me much, you know. I would not know what to do with them were they to suddenly arrive.”

“Excuse me?” the secretary sputtered in confusion. “Surely your mama will wish to visit now that you are the wife of a duke?”

“I’m sure my mama would, and she would be more than welcome, I’m sure, were she still alive.”

“The Dowager Countess of Harwood has died as well?”

The duchess laughed softly. For some inexplicable reason, she always enjoyed this part of meeting someone new. Perhaps she possessed a cruel streak, an odd desire to torture others with discomfort, the same discomfort she often felt, or was made to feel, when in the company of others.

Confusion mixed with chagrin and a little disbelief on Martin’s mobile features. 

Leandra refused to feel shame for her parentage. Why should she? It was not her fault that her father had fallen in love with her mother after he was already married. He could have restrained his affection, not made love to a woman who was not his wife, thus fathering an illegitimate child, but it was hardly something Leandra could have prevented. Why should she herself be blamed?

It was one reason the duke’s staff now boasted three maids heavy with child. Their lovers had fled, leaving them to fend for themselves. Mrs. Stark had always fired the girls when they fell from grace because it was the duke’s instructions to do so. It was the first thing in which Leandra had outright defied her husband. The girls’ troubles had hit a little too close to home for Leandra to be content with their immediate dismissal.

Not that she had neglected to make it painfully clear that their conduct was unacceptable. They were warned that dismissal was the punishment for any servant indulging in loose conduct. But then, Leandra, unlike the majority of the aristocracy, encouraged marriage among her servants.

Now she sat staring at Mr. St. Clair as he waited for an explanation that she knew he was not in the least suspecting. Or maybe he was. How was she to know?

“No, the dowager Lady Harwood is still alive, sir. But she is not my mama.”

Her eyes fairly bubbled with laughter when Martin’s pale brows all but disappeared into his hair. He goggled at her for all of thirty seconds before he recalled his manners. “Have you had any problems since your arrival?” he asked in a sudden change of subject.

“It is all right, you know,” she told him gently. “I know that I am baseborn. Hart knows as well. It is nothing I can help and there is no reason to be embarrassed about it.”

He nodded once, his face flaming.

“I am sorry, Cousin Martin,” Leandra said sincerely, all traces of her smile disappearing. “I am a beast to tease you so.”

“You mean you are not…?” he trailed off.

“Oh, no, I am indeed Harwood’s by-blow, sir.” Leandra cocked her head to one side. “As to any problems I’ve had, they have been many and some quite serious, I’m afraid.”

“In what way?” His relief was palpable but oddly mixed with concern for her troubles.

“Well, Mr. Jackson told me that the lower fields are flooded and I honestly know not the first thing to do to solve such a problem. Mr. Owens claims that Mr. Spellman had been stealing his sheep and would not relent until I promised to purchase more for him. Poor Mr. Jeffries lost his wife and child recently in childbed because there is no doctor in Folkestone at the moment. I hired him to work on the gardens since the lonely man was beside himself with grief and he shows a particular talent for landscaping.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “Hmm, Lily, the scullery made was replaced by Mary since Lily married Mr. Wilson. He wanted a wife, you see, and Lily was more than willing to take the position. Old Mr. Huber requested a new roof for his cottage and I granted the request. He really is too old to be working. Is there something we can do for him, do you think?”

Martin just stared at her, his mouth hanging open. She shrugged and continued.

“Mrs. Miller complained that her oldest boy was being worked to death in the factories outside Folkestone. Does Hart own them?” She shook her head. “No matter. So I transferred Billy here to be a groom. He earns more money that way and he is in less danger of getting hurt. He has to take care of his family, you know. His papa died leaving his mama with eight mouths to feed. I also hired the two oldest girls to train to be maids. That’s who Mary is, actually. The other is Martha. She works in the kitchens, too. And then there’s—”

“Lady Derringer!”

“Yes?” she asked innocently.

Martin smiled. “Perhaps later we can go over the details. I have been instructed to find out if anyone has been giving you any trouble personally.”

“Instructed? By whom?”

His brows rose again. “By your husband, of course.”

“Of course,” she murmured. Did her husband actually care about her, after all?

Over the course of the next week, Leandra spent most of her time with Martin St. Clair. She found the man charming and not the least disturbing. It was a relief to not have to constantly look for hidden meanings in his expressions or comments. He made her feel like a lady.

She was amazed to realize that it was something she had always wanted. Despite her own personal conviction that she was not to blame for her parentage, she couldn’t help but wish that others would treat her with the same respect and courtesy that her papa and now Martin showed her. She had always desired to be treated as the lady she was raised to be.

He took care of many of the things that she had no experience with but he was careful never to overstep his authority. He bowed to her wishes and was very tactful when letting her know that she was wrong about something.

The Starks remained mum about the entire situation. Personally, they thought the master should come home and be a husband to the sweet girl he married instead of gallivanting off to God only knew where stirring up trouble and ignoring his responsibilities.

7

At that precise moment, the Duke of Derringer was not stirring up trouble, nor was he ignoring his responsibilities. He was sitting at a corner table in a seedy little hedge tavern in Dunkirk near the French coast. He watched the door closely while appearing to be captivated by the noxious brew in his mug. He waited for the arrival of a man named Gaston who, it was said, had word of Derringer’s cousin Gabriel St. Clair.

Gabriel, who was supposed to be dead.

Derringer was determined to find his cousin, who’d disappeared at Waterloo. Gabriel was the only family member Derringer would trust with his life. He trusted Martin, Gabriel’s older brother, but Gabriel and Derringer were the same age and had shared much more in the way of adventures and such when they were young. Martin’s serious demeanor and overblown sense of propriety annoyed Derringer, though the man’s managerial skills were a godsend.

A slight disruption at the tavern door caused several myopic eyes to glance up. Derringer caught sight of a man clothed in a raggedy old French military uniform, no doubt something that earned him many a drink out of pity. That had to be Gaston.

The man turned in Derringer’s direction and approached. “Be you the one they call Sans c
œ
ur?” he asked in a guttural French accent.

“I am Heartless,” Derringer confirmed in his own perfect French, revealing his aristocratic background. He motioned to the landlord, who brought fresh ale, leaving without a word.

Gaston sat down across from the duke and threw him a grateful smile before draining his tankard. After swiping his dirty sleeve across his mouth, he spoke in his native tongue. “The man you seek is in Maubeuge. Do you know it?”

Derringer nodded. “About eighty miles or so southeast of here.” He frowned, shaking his head. Maubeuge was so close to Waterloo. Was it possible Gabriel hadn’t ventured far from the scene of his injury?

“Aye. Take care, Heartless. There are some French still wanting to overthrow the English and would look on the corpse of one such as you with great delight,” he warned right before he stood to leave.

A sudden cry of rage rent the air and Derringer’s head jerked in the direction of the door. Gaston looked as well, blanched linen-white and muttered something about French devils and their English friends. Derringer straightened his slumped shoulders and stared at the brawl that seemed to be taking over the taproom. The circle parted briefly, allowing Derringer to see who stood at the edge of the melee, faces lit with savage delight as the combatants darkened each other’s daylights.

Cursing in a low tone, Derringer stood and, keeping his back to the contretemps, pressed several coins into Gaston’s hand. He knew he had to get out before he was discovered. There were too many uncertainties in this situation. He was at a disadvantage. The Duke of Derringer never entered a battle without an edge over his opponent.

With a nod for Gaston, Derringer quickly traversed the room, blending easily into the shadows along the wall. He slipped out a side door and into a dark alley before anyone even realized he had been there and gone.