The Wicked Duke (20 page)

He rose, pulled back the bedclothes, and slid under them. She turned and tucked the sheet and coverlet up higher on him. No one had done that to him since he was a child.

She rolled onto her other side. She began falling asleep, so perhaps she felt better.

He looked at her back move with her deepening breaths. He found himself smiling.

Even when she was unconscious, she managed to lighten his mood.

M
ama, Nora, and Uncle Horace called the next day, on their way out of town. They were returning to Gloucestershire, their carriage laden with trunks carrying new wardrobes. Everyone made small talk in the drawing room for fifteen minutes, pretending they had no idea what had occurred in this house the night before.

She and Aylesbury showed them out. Her husband and uncle spoke a few private words before Uncle Horace climbed up beside the coachman.

Aylesbury chose not to leave London yet. That delighted Marianne. She wanted to see the sights she had not had time to tour already. In the afternoon they rode horses in the park, then visited the shops. If she looked at anything for long, he bought it for her. She soon owned an enviable collection of kid gloves, an etched crystal
box, a headdress that would do a princess proud, two new bonnets, and an ermine muff.

He took her to St. James Palace and old cathedral the next day, and in the evening they attended the theater. The Duke of Aylesbury owned a yacht, with a small crew at the ready, and the day after they donned warm clothing and sailed down the Thames and into the sea.

The fourth day Eva wrote, asking them to call. She had a guest visiting from Coventry, her letter explained, and she wanted Marianne to meet her. Could she and Aylesbury interrupt their new marital bliss for a brief visit?

“Their guest is Gareth's mother, Mrs. Johnson,” he explained while they ate breakfast in the morning room. “She was my father's mistress for decades. He took up with her when I was a young child.”

“I know that is common, but your mother must not have liked it.”

“I do not think she minded too much. She and my father were not a good match. She had given him three sons by then. They had little to do with each other after Ives was born.” He spoke absently while he flipped through his mail. “He told me years later, not long before he died, that she lacked loyalty in every way. He could not trust her, and quickly came not to like her.”

“Did you not find it hard to hear that said of your mother?”

He set a letter aside. “A little, but not much more than that. Percy was my mother's favorite, of course. She had little time for me. I was the spare, not the heir.”

How sad that he said this with so little emotion, as if
that distance were to be expected. What an unhappy family his must have been. It was a wonder he had not grown up malformed in character.

Then again, perhaps he had. His reputation in the county spoke of trouble and rebellion when he was a youth. And more recently.

“Mrs. Johnson rarely comes up to town,” he said. “I assume her visit has to do with the approaching birth of her grandchild. We will go. I would like to see her.”

That afternoon Marianne dressed in what she called her duchess clothes. When she went below, Aylesbury assessed the pale green wool dress. “You look lovely.”

“It is part of the excess Mama enjoyed inflicting on Uncle Horace's purse. I am sure he is happy to be rid of the keep of at least one of us.”

“You will need to visit the dressmakers again soon,” he said as they settled in the coach. “Find several you trust. You will need a gown to be presented at court, and there will probably be a coronation before the year is out.”

“Are you commanding me to spend a fortune on new dresses? Such drudgery you require of me!”

He took her hand and kissed it. “Work your wiles artfully, and you can probably enjoy as much such drudgery as you want.”

That kiss reminded her of the first one he had given her, in that little boat, before Nora— She stopped her mind from traveling through that entire afternoon. More to the moment, she suspected that kiss meant he would come to her chamber again tonight. He had not since their wedding night.

Eva had suddenly entered that stage in pregnancy when a female appears uncomfortable. She sat in the drawing room with an older woman of impressive appearance. Mrs. Johnson's dark eyes and hair and angular face marked her as handsome more than beautiful. Her son Gareth looked much like her in certain features. If one were critical, one might say the similarities enhanced him beyond fairness, while they gave her a vaguely strict visage.

Marianne could not deny that Mrs. Johnson looked very interesting, however. Also very distinctive. She could see how the old duke found a young Mrs. Johnson to his liking.

Eva introduced them, adding, lest Aylesbury had forgotten to explain, that Mrs. Johnson was Gareth's mother.

“If you are thoroughly confused, my son was given a surname that reflected he was the bastard of a noble father,” Mrs. Johnson said. “Nor was I born Amanda Johnson. There was a very brief white marriage to Captain Johnson, so the duke did not take up with someone officially an innocent.”

“As you can see, my mother does not stand on ceremony regarding her history,” Gareth said, amused.

“To do so would be the worst hypocrisy,” his mother said.

“Do you plan to stay until the child is born?” Marianne asked.

“I have asked her to,” Eva said. “She declined. I think she believes she would be in the way. Don't you, Amanda?”

Mrs. Johnson assumed a serene expression. “If I know
one thing, it is that it is not good to have two mistresses of one house. You think I will not intrude or impose my views, Eva. In truth, I probably would.”

“Your advice would be welcomed.”

“Would it?” Mrs. Johnson stood, walked to a large footstool, brought it back, and set it down. “Then put your feet up, as I told you twice already.”

Eva glanced at Marianne, bit back a smile, and dutifully rested her feet on the footstool.

Then she took them right down. “I promise to use that as soon as I return. I want to take Marianne and show her something in the garden.” She stood, took Marianne's hand, and urged her to follow.

“Put on your heavy wool pelisse,” Mrs. Johnson called after her. “And your half boots. Those shoes are little more than slippers.”

Eva ignored both bits of advice. She did grab a cloak and wrap herself before they stepped outside.

“I lied when I said I had something to show you,” Eva said while they walked down from the terrace. “Gareth wants his mother to talk with Aylesbury, and he with her. The conversation might be more forthcoming if we are not present.”

“He said he has known her most of his life. He would want some privacy for them.”

“Of more significance is she knew that household at Merrywood for most of
her
life. Her father was a butler there. She has kept in touch with some of the servants. And the whole time she was the duke's mistress, she
lived close to Merrywood, in Cheltenham. If Lance is determined to learn what really happened to his brother, he would do well to start by talking to her.”

He was determined to learn that? He was investigating? She tried not to show her surprise at hearing this.

“Now, let us talk about you.” Eva smiled slyly and slipped her arm through Marianne's. “How do you like being married?”

*   *   *

“I
t has been a long time, Lance.” Mrs. Johnson took his measure. “You do not mind if I address you like that still, do you? Your Grace seems too formal for someone I scolded when he was a boy, and Aylesbury—well, to me, there will only be one Aylesbury.”

He sat beside her. “I do not mind. Is all well with you in Coventry? Do you have everything you need?” His father had provided well for Mrs. Johnson, in ways that Percy could not touch. Times were hard, however, and it might not be enough now.

“Is that an offer to improve my situation if I ask? That is kind of you. Percy would have been happy to see me starve.”

“I am not Percy.”

“No. You never were. You were a bad boy, and still are from what I hear, but I preferred your honest disobedience to his sly and false compliance. One knew where one stood with you. With Percy, one felt the need to cover one's back.”

A more succinct and accurate depiction of Percy's
character as a boy would be hard to find. Mrs. Johnson did not seem to expect anyone to come to Percy's defense.

“Mother, Lance is looking into the events of the night Percy died,” Gareth said. “I thought you might have some idea of who in the household can't be trusted to be loyal, and perhaps even be the kind of person who might lie if the price were right.”

“I suppose if we are going to talk about this, it would also help to know if there was anyone there who hated Percy,” Lance said. “If he was indeed poisoned, someone had to do it.”

Mrs. Johnson frowned while she pondered. “To the first question, I cannot help you. Every person probably has a price, when one gets down to it. Not to commit murder or treason, perhaps, but a lie? If I were you, I would assume each one of them has potential.”

What she said was probably true, but not good news.

“However, you might speak with Stuart. He is the old footman. The lame one. He is given light duties now, and often sits by the door. He has been there forever, and knows them all personally.”

“Thank you. That is helpful.”

“As to the second question. Stuart wrote to me that Percy's valet, Mr. Playne, was pensioned off. You should talk to him. He served Percy for years. He would know if Percy had been especially cruel to someone, or if a servant had taken serious offense for some action or words.”

“Would he not have come forward and said something if he suspected someone?” Gareth asked.

“You are assuming that he is loyal to his master even
now, after that master is dead and he is no longer in service,” Lance said. “Your mother is right. Playne might know something he did not want to share with the justices. Perhaps he did not mourn Percy much either.”

“Then we must talk to him. Where is he?”

“He left before I even realized it. The pension was part of Percy's testament. I have no idea where he went. Perhaps one of the other servants does.”

“Kent,” Mrs. Johnson said. “He went to live with his daughter in Kent. Stuart wrote and told me.” She held up her hands. “Beyond that, I do not think I am of much use to you.”

“You have been very helpful,” Lance said. “Are you sure there is nothing you need?”

“A new pair,” Gareth said. “One of her horses has gone lame.”

“Gareth,
really
.”

“Mother,
really
,” he mimicked. “It is a little late to be getting embarrassed about gifts from a Duke of Aylesbury.”

Mrs. Johnson thought about that. “He has a point.”

“Indeed he does,” Lance said.

“White,” she said. “I have always fancied a pure white pair for my carriage.”

*   *   *

L
ance seemed subdued as they rode back to the house. He remained so through their dinner. Only after it did he come out of his thoughts. He looked at her in an odd way, as if wondering what she was still doing there.

“Mrs. Johnson is a lovely woman,” she said, lest they just look at each other in an awkward silence. “Very forthright too.”

“I expect it was one of her appeals. My mother, you see, never said what she meant or meant what she said.”

“What did you and Mrs. Johnson talk about? Old times?”

“Didn't Eva tell you?”

He had caught her in her first attempt at dissembling with him. “She did say something about your looking into your brother's death.”

“Gareth concluded his mother might be able to help. That is what we talked about.”

“After all this time, you think to discover what really happened? Why now, and not nine months ago?”

“Nine months ago, even six or four, I believed that by now this would all be in the past. The coroner would come to his senses and accept that Percy's death was natural. Not only has that not happened, but recently a few things have transpired to make me realize, finally, that I cannot expect it to ever be in the past unless I find a way to put it there.”

“What kind of things?”

He contemplated that question as if it were far more complex than she thought it. “One thing will seem so small as to be ridiculous, but it has created new difficulties for me. A letter was published in the
Times
by one of its correspondents. It described my attendance at that assembly, and made oblique reference to the sword still hanging over my head. The author, a Mr. Tewkberry, no
doubt thought his letter benign, but it revived all the gossip, all the speculation, here in town.”

Nothing in the way he spoke suggested he knew Tewkberry's identity. She felt sick. She could not believe she had caused him trouble when she wrote that letter.

No, that was not true. Now she dissembled with herself. She had written it after he went too far in that garden. She had written it with Nora on her mind. She had known that repeating what the coroner had said about new developments could be taken two ways. She had not wanted to cause big trouble for him, but she had not cared too much if she caused a little.