Jilting the Duke (10 page)

“You have my word.”

Aldine tapped on the roof, and the hackney slowed. He handed up a slip of paper, and the carriage changed direction. “After his lordship's death, you spent weeks in London, making inquiries,” Aldine explained, almost offhandedly.

“I thought I'd been subtle.” Aidan hid his chagrin. Malcolm had also noticed his interest. Had others found it remarkable as well?

As if anticipating the line of Aidan's thought, Aldine offered, “I doubt if anyone else noticed. I simply saw a pattern in the reports I received. You suspected Lord Wilmot's death was not natural.”

“He was not yet thirty.” Aidan shrugged.

“No, not yet thirty. But we lost many not yet thirty and not yet twenty, in the wars. One grows inured to the reports.”

A companionable silence grew between them, both men understanding how much had been lost in defeating Bonaparte.

Aidan watched the buildings change, the neighborhood grow less mercantile and more rural. They were heading north and east, out of the City, toward St. Pancras and Camden Town. Aidan calculated how much time he would need to return home in time to change for dinner. Eventually the hackney stopped in an unassuming neighborhood, little more than a crossroads with brick row houses on either side. The carriage pulled into the mews behind one row. Aldine directed Aidan through an apparently unused kitchen, to the front of the house, and into a cozy drawing room. The decorations suggested a spinster with an affection for lace.

Aldine pointed Aidan to an upholstered armless chair, then slipped from the room.

The maple furniture was decades old, in the style of Queen Anne. A hoop with embroidery half-finished lay to the side of the sofa, and a book open on the writing desk gave the impression of a resident returning soon. But the air in the room was stale and the table not recently dusted. The room was staged to appear as if someone lived in the house. If Aidan were a betting man, he would have said that Aldine lived somewhere else.

Aldine returned with several pasteboard hat boxes stacked high enough to hide his lower face.

“Tom would have liked this.” Aidan motioned at the room, the hat boxes. “As a boy, he was always squirreling things away, creating hiding places in books or under drawers, tapping the wall of every room to find the secret passageways. At Harrow, he even had a suitcase with a false bottom where he would hide his treasures.”

Aldine opened the lid of the top hat box to reveal it was filled with letters. “I'm pleased to know my circumspection would have pleased his lordship. I moved most of my correspondence with Lord Wilmot here when I realized you had suspicions about his death.”

“Most?”

“I left enough to avoid questions if a clerk noticed we had no documents, but nothing of note. These boxes concern you; you will find copies of every communication we sent his lordship interleaved with his responses. His lordship indicated you may read in my presence.”

Aldine picked up a newspaper and moved to the couch. Aidan opened the first box.

The reading was sobering, a detailed record of his sins. The reports began with his return from the Continent after Aaron's death. The names of all his mistresses, their whereabouts, how much he had spent on them, their settlements on parting, which gambling hells he preferred, even the nights he'd appeared at Almack's. It was better and worse than a diary. At least Aldine had been scrupulous in recording the good with the bad.

In the end Aidan felt weighed in the balance, and he found himself wanting. The only information Aldine hadn't recorded was Aidan's work for the Home Office. It would have explained some of Aidan's behavior. But whether that would have counted him a sinner or a saint, there was no way to tell. He'd be a fool if he ever gave Sophia permission to read the documents.

He was grateful Tom had withheld the information from Sophia. If she knew even a tenth of the information hidden in the hat boxes, his campaign would be doomed. When Ophelia had confided that the comments of tourists had made Sophia wary of him as Ian's guardian, Aidan had passed it off as nothing more than the idle chatter of bored expatriates. Sophia had made no attempt to dredge up their past, not even when he had given her the opening on the stairs. But now he better understood in how damning a light the stories placed him and how reticent Sophia would have been to broach the rumors she'd heard, given his role as Ian's guardian. But Ophelia was right: to allay Sophia's reservations, he would have to be charming, solicitous, and subtle—though not for the reasons Ophelia would assume.

Chapter Twelve

In the middle of the library floor, Ian had laid out one of his favorite games, The Magic Ring. Printed on heavy paper then glued to sturdy linen, the game showed a knight reclining at the middle of four concentric circles, each circle connecting to the next to form a spiral. The spiral itself was divided into 50 steps, each one illustrated with a hand-colored symbol that told the player what to do when his marker landed there.

Ian rolled the six-sided die. “Two!” He leaned forward to move his marker. “That takes me from step 26, the Basket of Flowers, to step 28! I'm more than halfway to the center!”

The symbol for step 28 was an open chest filled with riches.

“Do you get a reward or punishment for landing there?” Sophia asked.

“A reward: ten counters from the bank.”

Sophia counted out ten dried peas from the bag Cook had provided somewhat reluctantly.

Grinning, Ian added them to his already large pile. “If we go by peas, I'm winning.”

“You still have to beat me to step 50.” Sophia leaned over the game board to read the instructions printed in the margins. “Last turn I landed on 38, the Dove of Peace, so this turn I get to double whatever I roll.”

She sat back, looking for the die on the floor between them, but couldn't find it. She felt the floor and looked in the folds of her dress. “Ian, do you see . . .”

“Look up, Mama.”

She did, only to hear “Catch!” as Ian tossed the die a bit too far to her right.

Sophia stretched as far as her dress would allow and caught the die inches before it hit the floor, even though it set her off balance. Pulling herself back upright, she raised one eyebrow. “You forget that my cousins were more devious than you. I know that trick.”

Ian shrugged and grinned. “But you caught it.”

“Incorrigible.” Sophia shook her head. “That's what you are.” She looked at the clock. She didn't want to be lounging on the floor when Aidan arrived. They had plenty of time to finish the game. “Let's see.” She cast the die. “Oh, dear.”

Ian laughed. “One. Double that is two. Now you're on 40—oh no, the Lobster!” He held his hands out to her, opening and closing them like a pair of claws.

“Is that bad?” Though Sophia had played the game in her childhood, she pretended to have forgotten it entirely to give Ian the pleasure of teaching her.

Ian leaned over the rules and read them aloud. “It says here: ‘Who falls into his claws is pinched back as many pictures as his next goes will spin.'”

Sophia grimaced and moved her marker. “Well, if I have to go backward, let's hope I throw another one. Your turn.”

Ian shook the die next to his ear, then blew on it.

Sophia laughed. “Where did you learn that?”

“From Nate. He says Uncle Sidney always does it when he plays. It's for luck.” Ian blew on the die once more.

“That's only a superstition.”

“We'll see.” Ian cast the die. “Five.” Ian counted the steps as he moved his marker, the banner-bearer from his army set. “Number 33, the Magic Circle!”

Sophia reached for the die, but Ian snatched it from the board before she could reach it.

She held out her hand. “Isn't it my turn?”

“Mama,” Ian offered in mock exasperation, “if you would read the rules, you would know.” He pointed at the rules. “The Magic Circle ‘immediately entitles the spinner to two new goes.'”

Ian threw the die. “One.” He moved the banner-bearer forward one step to step 34, Fortune.

“See, you shouldn't have teased me,” Sophia gloated.

“No, see what it says here. At Fortune, I gain eight counters from the bank, move my marker to step 44, then throw again.”

Sophia added eight peas to Ian's pile. “What's at 44?”

Ian counted. “It's the Heart. Here are three peas for the bank.”

“Why?” She took the peas from his hand.

“He has to pay ‘a token of his expected constancy.'” Aidan's voice came from the doorway behind her. “Of course I always found constancy of a much greater value than three dried peas . . . and much harder to come by.”

Sophia stiffened and bit back a retort. With her back to Aidan, she closed her eyes for a moment to collect herself.
Of course, he'd arrived early, and in time to offer a disquisition on constancy. But be gracious—gracious for Ian's sake. You cannot afford to offend him.

Sitting on the floor, she twisted to acknowledge Aidan. “Dodsley did not announce you had arrived. If you would be so kind as to wait in the entry, we will join you momentarily.” To rise without damaging her skirts, she would have to perform a series of ungainly acrobatics, and she wished not to perform them in Aidan's view. Any proper gentleman would retreat—but would Aidan?

Sophia turned back to Ian. “Count up your peas. We'll note where we left off and finish tomorrow.”

Fine leather Wellington boots walked from behind her to the space between her and Ian.

“If you wish to finish, we have time.” Aidan crossed his ankles and lowered himself gracefully to the floor.

All on the floor together, there was no reason not to finish the game. She nodded assent, and Ian blew on the die once more.

“Ian, you don't believe that works, do you?” Sophia prodded gently.

“It worked before, and I need a six to get to the center. All the steps between here and 50 make you lose turns.” He blew on the die and shook it beside his ear, then threw. “Six!”

Sophia watched Ian move his marker to step 50, symbolized by an illustration of a Knight at his ease. “You've won!”

“Not yet. Now I have to throw a one, two, or three twice before I win. Otherwise, I have to go back steps. It's your turn.”

“This is too complicated.” Sophia pretended petulance, placing her hand to her forehead.

“Not if you read the rules,” Aidan echoed Ian genially.

Sophia glared at Aidan, then cast the die. “Two. Ah, back to the Dove of Peace. Does landing on the Dove of Peace require me to throw again?”

“Yes, and double it,” Ian reminded. “But blow on the die, just in case.”

“I'll brave the consequences of not blowing on the dice.” She threw. “Five.” She picked up her marker. “Doubled, that is 10.”

“I told you to blow on it.” Ian began counting the peas in his large pile.

Sophia counted ten steps, her marker landing on a symbol of a grave. “Oh. Is this bad?”

“That's the Grave.” Ian returned his peas to the bag. “The rules say ‘who plunges himself in this dreary mansion is deemed dead and has entirely lost the game.'”

“I seem to have arrived in time, then, to save your mother from an early grave.” Aidan looked at Sophia's tiny pile of peas. “I don't think there's any reason to count, do you?”

Sophia shook her head, and Ian began putting her peas into the bag. Sophia picked up the game and unsuccessfully tested several ways to fold it to return it to its box.

To Sophia's surprise, Aidan reached out and took the game gently from her hands, then folded it on the first try. She didn't know whether she should be grateful or offended.

“Mama pretends to like games she knows I like,” Ian said. Then he added more quietly, “Papa and I used to play.”

“I always enjoy being with you.” Sophia tousled her son's hair and tickled him out of his fleeting sadness.

“See.” Ian grinned at Aidan. “Because she doesn't like them, she loses, even when all she has to do is throw dice.”

“Well, perhaps I can play them with you,” Aidan suggested. “But I rarely lose.”

Ian picked up the banner-bearer and put it gently in his pocket. “I would like that, your grace.”

“If your mother doesn't like games, what does she prefer?” Aidan focused his gaze on Ian, not Sophia.

“Ahem, I can hear you talking about me.” She waved her hand, as if they had not noticed her.

“Other than me, she likes plants and painting.” Ian looked at his mother, then at Aidan. “I'm not sure she likes you yet.”

“Ian!” Sophia chastened. “Remember your manners.” She tossed her son the bag of peas. “Return these to Cook.” She held the game up to him. “And the game to the nursery.”

Ian tucked the game under one arm and left, tossing the bag of peas up and down like a ball, clearly enjoying the sound of the peas falling against one another.

“We had to promise to return the peas before we left. Cook needs to set them to soak.” Sophia started to arrange her skirts, trying to imagine how to stand without looking like a cow struggling to escape a bog.

Aidan stood as gracefully as he had sat. “May I help you up, my lady?” He held out his hands. “Perhaps it will give you cause to like me . . . if only a little.”

She didn't look into his eyes, only at his hands. “Your kindness to my son gives me ample cause already.” She adjusted her dress to keep it from getting caught underfoot and took his hands. They were strong and warm. Aidan pulled her up gently and set her on her feet. She ignored the warmth that spread up her arms and into her belly.

“Then perhaps I can find other kindnesses to perform.” But before she could respond, he bent down to pick up her marker, a green crystalline stone, flat on the bottom, but with one vertical crystal emerging from a pool of other smaller crystals. “I don't recognize the stone.”

“It's vesuvianite,” Sophia offered, hoping to distract him from Ian's revelation.

“From the volcano?” Aidan held the crystal in the light.

“Thereabouts. We had gone on an excursion to the side of the crater, and Ian traded for it because I liked it.” She watched Aidan examine the stone, turning it to catch the light in its facets.

“Traded?” Aidan held out the vesuvianite crystal to her.

“Ian treated our gardens as his personal bank, and cuttings from it were his currency.” Without her fingers touching his, she lifted the crystal from his palm and returned it to the mantel below Tom's portrait.

“I didn't realize Ian inherited your love of plants.” Aidan folded his hands behind his back, watching.

“Oh, he doesn't love them; he loves what he can do with them.” She walked toward the partner desk to retrieve a long black cloak. “He'll manage his estate well, but if he weren't a lord, he'd be perfectly happy in trade.”

“He has a ready mind and quick wits, traits valuable in any pursuit . . . which must lead us to the question: how do we convince him he is wrong?”

She pulled the cloak over her shoulders, then turned to her reflection in the garden window glass. “Wrong?” She used the excuse of arranging the shawl over her décolletage to avoid facing him.

“Do you harbor an aversion to me?”

“I harbored an aversion to sharing the guardianship. Ian noticed my reticence and presumed it was tied to you. Nothing more.” She set her face in a grave reserve and turned back to face him.

“Yet if Ian believes it is dislike, it will make my role as guardian difficult. Unless you help me convince him he is wrong.” Aidan had moved to stand near her. He was closer than she'd expected, or wanted. For just an instant, she once more imagined Aidan as a large predatory cat hunting her. But his voice was conciliatory, even deferent.

She wanted to object, but it was her fault for letting Ian, her ever-perceptive son, see her discomfort. “I have no idea how to be other than I am. What do you propose?”

“When Ian is present, you pretend to feel comfortable in my presence. If it helps, pretend I am someone else. Seth, perhaps, or Clive. Pick someone of your circle with whom you feel most at home, and behave to me as you would to them.”

“Malcolm, though I haven't seen him for some time.”

“Then pretend I'm Malcolm.”

“You and Malcolm are nothing alike,” she interjected before she could catch her words.

“I always thought we were much alike.” Aidan looked bemused.

“Oh, no. Malcolm wears his childhood in Kentucky like a badge of honor, and when it suits him, he even puts on a hint of Daniel Boone.”

“And me? What am I like?” Aidan quizzed.

Ian came to the door of the library. “Mr. Fletcher says to tell his grace that only God can stop time.”

“Mr. Fletcher?” Sophia asked, grateful to avoid more explanation.

“My coachman. He's been with the estate since before I was born, which gives him the right—or so he tells me—to order me about. Shall we go?” Aidan offered her his arm, and, aware of Ian's careful gaze, she took it.

* * *

“Eighteen carriages for a family dinner?” Sophia groaned as Fletcher drew up to the Masons' large Kensington home.

“Nineteen if you count ours, Mama.” Ian leaned out the window, waiting for the carriage to stop and allow his escape.

“Ophelia defines small somewhat differently than most. But take heart: she's limited by the word
family
.” Aidan unlatched the door and allowed Ian, already perched at the threshold, to jump down. Ian ran to the front door and let himself in.

“I assure you that I did rear my son to have manners.” Sophia shook her head.

“Ophelia is his aunt; Nate is his friend. Besides, he's saved us the trouble of being announced.” Aidan stepped down from the carriage, then held out his hand. Sophia took it, steeling herself against the thrill of his touch. “I am certain you will manage the hordes admirably, but if you require assistance, I am at your service.”

The front door flung open, and Ophelia greeted them.