The Wyndham Legacy (16 page)

“My lord, it would seem that such activities would require more time than you currently have, what with your duties to Lord Dracornet. Surely you will be too busy with the upcoming discussions about the Congress in Vienna this fall.”

“Oh no, not at all. I'm not a bloody diplomat, Spears, indeed, all the diplomats involved in this program will be intriguing until the world comes to an end. They will lie and they will do anything to gain what they want. No, it isn't for me. Damn, if you're going to stab someone, do it to the man's face.

“Lord Castlereagh did inquire as to my wishes about the Congress and I told him that I had other things to do. Actually, I came near to kissing his boots in my politeness, but I did indicate that I wouldn't be able to attend, as much as I wanted to. As to Lord Dracornet and my duties here in London, I have asked for a temporary leave since I have to assume my new duties as the VIII earl of Chase. Not only just new, of course, but also now endowed with appropriate funds. I believe Lord Dracornet was so relieved that I am no longer destitute, no longer a peer embarrassment, that he was most sincere in his best wishes to me.”

“I see, my lord. Your lordship has many other duties as well. Your estates are vast. Surely you recall in your ten months as a real earl how much time is required to see that everything runs smoothly.”

“Oh yes, I remember, Spears. No, you can keep any further arguments to yourself. I'm not going to Chase Park. The last female in the world I wish to see is the damned Duchess.”

“She is a countess, my lord.”

“Your wit ripens, Spears. Go away and leave me alone. Forget Chase Park. That's the last place I'll go.”

The Duchess stared at Wilhelmina Wyndham. Surely she couldn't have heard her aright. “I beg your pardon, ma'am?”

“I said that the grouse hereabouts could be infected with vile parasites.”

She hadn't said that, of course, but the Duchess let it go. “I will ask Badger to carefully examine all grouse before they are allowed into the kitchen.”

Wilhelmina Wyndham nodded. She turned then to gaze about the huge drawing room. “All this is just as my husband described it to me. He painted pictures for me—all in words, naturally—and I could see Chase Park in my mind. At last I am here. You wondered why we came here immediately and didn't go to London first. I knew exactly where Chase Park was and I wanted to waste no time coming here.”

She said gently, “But ma'am, even if Marcus and I hadn't married, Chase Park would have remained the earl's, for it is entailed.”

“Yes, I know. You think Americans are fools, but we're not. This was my husband's home. Surely you don't believe I wouldn't want to visit here?”

“Of course you would want to and you are welcome. Chase Park is very impressive and its history is quite remarkable, but surely you will want to visit London before you return to America?”

“You are nothing but a slut. I won't heed you.”

The Duchess blinked hard. “I beg your pardon, ma'am?”

“I said that you're in a rut and if I must plead to stay here, why then, so I shall. I won't leave you, Josephina, you would be ever so lonely. You don't mean to say that we are not welcome here?”

“Naturally you are welcome, ma'am, I just told you you were, but Chase Park is not your home. As Mr. Wicks
told you last evening, there is no inheritance now that his lordship and I have wed.”

“I think you're a conniving bitch.”

The Duchess heard her well enough this time, but she was so utterly taken aback that she couldn't think of a thing to say. She just looked at her, waiting to hear what she would say now, but Wilhelmina merely shrugged and walked toward the grand double doors. “Yes,” she said now, “it must be nice to be very rich.”

“Indeed.”

Wilhelmina smiled and said gaily, “What do you think of my boys?”

Boys? Trevor was all of twenty-four, Marcus's age, and James was twenty. “They are very charming, ma'am. Ursula is also very nice.”

“Ursula is a girl and thus of no worth, of no more worth than you are, damn you.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said that Ursula is a girl of excellent birth, certainly of as good a birth as you are, you sweet lamb, you. I believe she will make a brilliant marriage, don't you think?”

She had a pounding headache. She merely nodded, thankful that her aunt Wilhelmina was willingly taking herself off. She quickly went out the eastern side door and hoped to lose herself in the Chase gardens, beautiful now in midsummer, all the roses blooming wildly, hyacinth with their bell-shaped flowers scenting the air, mixing with the perfume of the roses and the daisies and the huge-blossomed hydrangeas. Lilac trees with their lavender clusters were so sweet now that they clogged the senses. She walked to an ancient oak tree, so twisted and bent that it could be a meeting place for witches on All Hallows' Eve. She seated herself on the wooden bench beneath its lush green canopy of branches, leaned back against the trunk of the tree, and closed her eyes. It seemed as if she'd endured Aunt Wilhelmina for more than a decade and not just a day. Well, actually, a morning and an evening. Not even a full day.

Mr. Wicks was in a state of retreat, for Aunt Wilhelmina had all but attacked him the previous night.

When they'd arrived the previous afternoon, Aunt Wilhelmina had greeted her and Mr. Wicks as her guests. It was the strangest feeling to see Aunt Gweneth standing back, clearly deferring to the woman with the aging but still beautiful face with her head of hair so blond it was nearly white in the sunlight. Aunt Wilhelmina was unexpected, but then again, so was Trevor, the effete sod, the damnable pederast, the lisping dandy, according to Marcus. She smiled remembering Marcus's contempt.
Trevor! By God, a pederast, a mincing fop!

She supposed she'd expected to see a pretty young man with his mother's fair complexion and blond hair. She supposed she had even expected him to lisp and wear his cravat so high it touched his ears. Well, Marcus would be in for a surprise. No, there would be no surprise, for Marcus wouldn't come to Chase Park, not as long as she was here.

She wondered if he had returned to London.

The Twins and Ursula found her ten minutes later. At least her headache was reduced to a dull throbbing.

Antonia announced, “I have decided to marry Trevor, Duchess. He is much to my liking.”

Ursula, a small fourteen-year-old girl with her mother's fair coloring, a sweet girl with pretty features that surely would mold into beauty in four or five years, said, “Trevor is unhappy. He won't want to marry you yet, Antonia. Besides, you're only fifteen. At least for three more months. Trevor is quite old now.”

“Old! Trevor is quite a young man!” Antonia was flushed with the heat and with the audacity of such a statement about her newly appointed idol.

Ever practical, Fanny asked, “Why is he unhappy?” She took a big bite of the apple she held in her hand, the loud munching the only sound for at least a minute. At least it wasn't a sweetmeat, the Duchess thought. It seemed to her
that Fanny's face had thinned out over the past months. She and Antonia were growing up. She felt ancient at the moment.

“His wife died,” Ursula said.

Her mouth fell open in surprise. “He was married, Ursula?”

“Yes, Duchess. Her name was Helen and she was very nice, quite the prettiest girl in Baltimore, only she was sickly, Trevor said. She died in childbed, after a bad fall from her mare, the babe passing away with her. It happened only four months ago. They were only married for a year and a half. Trevor went away to New York, I think. He came back to escort us here to England because Mother wrote him a letter and begged him. James didn't like it because he wanted to take Father's place and see to our welfare. He didn't speak to Trevor for at least a week. I don't think Trevor even noticed. He was with us in body, but he was still away, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes,” the Duchess said. “I know exactly what you mean, Ursula.” Goodness, she thought, overwhelmed, you simply never knew anyone, their secrets, what they'd endured, what they were really like.

“By the time I am eighteen,” Antonia said with all the confidence of a girl who was rich, had an immense dowry, and who had been deferred to all her life, “Trevor will be over his unhappiness. Then he will marry me and I won't die in childbirth because I ride a horse quite nicely and I'm healthy as a stoat. Aunt Gweneth says so.”

Fanny took the last bite from her apple and flung it into the pond that lay just beyond the huge old oak tree, sending several ducks flapping away, quacking loudly in surprise. “Perhaps I will take James. I just wish he were a bit older. Boys are so callow. They need to ripen, like wine, at least that's what Papa used to say. Remember, Antonia? Papa used to tease Charlie and Mark whenever they remarked upon a pretty girl. He told them they were still vinegar, that it would take some years to make them vintage port.”

Ursula laughed. Antonia looked stricken. The Duchess said easily, “I can see him teasing the boys, Fanny. It's good to remember your brothers with pleasure and laughter.”

Ursula said, “That's why the earl is an upstart, isn't it? Since my cousins died—”

The Duchess said calmly, “Marcus is your cousin too. He is the earl of Chase. Your father and his father were brothers. You will give him your respect, Ursula, and you will look to him as the head of the Wyndham family, which he is.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I suppose you can begin with that respect business now. It is Ursula, isn't it?”

The Duchess didn't move. Then, very slowly, she turned to see Marcus leaning at his ease against the oak tree. How long had he been standing there, listening and watching? She stared at him silently.

“Yes, my lord.”

“You may call me Marcus, since we're cousins.”

“Yes, Marcus.”

“No fond hello for your husband?” He strode to her, stared down at her bent head a moment, then lifted her limp hand and kissed her fingers.

M
ARCUS FROWNED AT
the sound of that damned valet of his humming. Then Spears broke into song, his deep rich baritone echoing in the huge bedchamber as he neatly folded Marcus's socks.

“She's more rude than the Regent,
She's more boring than a stoat.
She's as lewd as her brother,
She's as crude as a goat.

“Ah, yes, crudeness, rudeness, and lewdness,
Three great qualities.
The Grand Duchess Catherine—
She royally claims all three.”

He couldn't help it, he smiled now. He'd heard how Czar Alexander had choked, spitting up his wine on his royal white gold-buttoned tunic when he chanced to hear some citizens beneath the bow street window of White's, singing at the top of their lungs, the words stark and clear as they'd strolled up St. James Street. He'd roared with rage, claimed he would slay the bastards, but was restrained by the unflappable Henry, the majordomo of White's for longer than Marcus could remember, and by the Duke of Wellington himself.

“Ah, my lord, you have seen the Duchess?”

“Yes, but just for a moment. She was in the garden with the bevy of young girls.”

“Is she well?”

“Why shouldn't she be? Wait a minute, Spears, have you learned something I should know through that damned spy network of yours?”

“No, my lord, it is just that when I last saw her, she wasn't happy. You hadn't been even passingly civil to her.”

“She didn't deserve civility, passing or otherwise. As for you, you traitorous sod, you should have been fired.”

“I appreciate your lordship's restraint.” As he spoke, Spears gently laid six freshly ironed cravats flat in a drawer.

“Are you mocking me, Spears?”

Spears straightened. “I, my lord? Mock you? Certainly not, my lord. The very thought deeply offends.”

Marcus grunted, saying, “When I saw her, I didn't at first gain her attention. You see, she was exhorting Ursula to give me full respect for I was the head of the Wyndham family.”

“Since you are the head of the family, it is most appropriate for her to point that out, my lord.”

“I suppose so, but why did she say it?”

Spears stilled his task of straightening the brush, comb, and nail file on top of Marcus's dressertop for a moment, then said gently, “Why would she not say it, my lord?”

“Oh shut up, Spears. You're not a bloody vicar. It's none of your damned affair. It was never any of your damned affair until you and Badger were impertinent to stick in your noses. I should have you transported to Botany Bay.”

“Ah yes, my lord. A nasty place, I've heard. Now about the garden, my lord, and what the Duchess said?”

“Oh very well. I said something then—made my presence known—and she turned into stone—nothing new in that. Now, I'm going riding. I hear that bloody effete sod, Trevor, is out marching one of my horses over my acres. Doubtless he's marking off boundaries to see how rich he will be.”

“But you said he would be rich, my lord. Either he or his progeny.”

“Go to hell, Spears. This is different. This is now, and I won't have the bugger treating Chase Park as if he's the earl. I will put a stop to his insolence. I wonder if the peacock uses a sidesaddle.”

“It is an interesting speculation, my lord. Will you be back for luncheon?”

“Yes, if I can find the fellow. I think I'll bloody his nose, no, that would make him shriek and perhaps cry. That would never do. No, I'll offer to lead his horse back to the Park for him. Surely he'll be fatigued by the time I find him. I wouldn't want the poor little dandy to overtire himself.”

“Most considerate of you, my lord.”

 

The Duchess was hungry but she didn't want to go into the dining room and face Aunt Wilhelmina. But poor Mr. Wicks didn't stand a chance around that formidable lady so she knew she couldn't leave him alone. She shuddered, remembering how Mr. Wicks had told her in a trembling voice how Aunt Wilhelmina had come to his bedchamber—
bedchamber!
—and proceeded to get everything out of him that she wanted to know because he was so startled, so taken aback, so incredulous. In short, Aunt Wilhelmina was a force to be reckoned with.

Where was Marcus?

He'd kissed her fingers, then smoothly introduced himself to Ursula, hugged Antonia and Fanny, then taken his leave, not looking at her again, or tossing her another meager word.

She sat in her place at the table. Aunt Gweneth had insisted she take the countess's chair, that it was only right. She'd merely been residing in that chair until the true countess could occupy it. She'd been charming since the Duchess and Mr. Wicks had arrived, treating the new countess of Chase as if she'd been a bastard again. The
Duchess was vastly relieved. The last thing she wanted was Aunt Gweneth's nose out of joint. The earl's chair at the other end of the twelve-foot table was empty.

No Marcus. She noticed that Trevor was missing as well. At least Mr. Crittaker was here, speaking kindly to Ursula.

She nodded to Sampson to begin serving the luncheon.

Aunt Wilhelmina said in a carrying voice, “Where is my nephew, the one who's set himself up as the new earl? He has yet to introduce himself to me.”

“I met him, Mama,” Ursula said as she forked up a bite of turtle soup. “He is very handsome and ever so big and nice. His hair is as black as the Duchess's and his eyes are a light blue too, just like hers.”

“They are related,” Wilhelmina said. “They should not have married. It is not natural or healthy. Any offspring could be gnomes.”

“Really, ma'am,” the Duchess said easily, “it's all perfectly legal. The Church doesn't object, after all.”

“The Church of England,” Aunt Wilhelmina said with a goodly dose of contempt. “What do those old fools know? If a man has a title and money to bribe them, they'll bend any rule that's ever been written. That's what happened, isn't it?”

“I assure you, ma'am, no bribery was necessary. Actually, his lordship and I were married in France. It is very Catholic there, ma'am. Even the civil requirements are as strict as those of the Church.”

“The French,” Aunt Wilhelmina said and snorted, just like Birdie, the Duchess's mare. “It is all understandable now. Perhaps I had best ask if your marriage is even valid in England.”

“I assure you, ma'am, that it is. Mr. Wicks will also give you assurances. He would, I daresay, even give you the assurances here, at the luncheon table, rather than in his bedchamber. Now, everyone doesn't need to hear more of our chatter. I suggest that we eat.”

“You're a stupid shrew and a bitch.”

“You didn't . . . no, no, surely no. Excuse me, ma'am?”

“I said all of this has come out of the blue and everything's gone off without a hitch, for you. What else could I have said?”

Evidently as Aunt Wilhelmina's indignation increased, her ability to match her cover-ups to her insults lessened.

“He should have come to meet me,” Wilhelmina said. “The new earl shows no respect. It shows his lack of breeding.”

That was probably true, the Duchess thought, at least the respect part. “You will enjoy his company at dinner, ma'am,” she said easily. She raised her glass and Toby, the footman, poured her more lemonade. “Thank you,” she said and smiled at him.

“He should die.”

“I beg your pardon, ma'am?” the Duchess said, ignoring the gasp from Mr. Crittaker, who was sitting next to Aunt Wilhelmina and thus could hear even her muttered words.

“I said the earl would cry over this ham. It is too salty and the pieces are sliced too thick.”

Mr. Wicks sent the Duchess an anguished look. He took another bite then excused himself. The Duchess knew poor Ursula couldn't budge from her chair until her mother gave her permission to do so. As for Fanny and Antonia, they looked too astonished to budge.

She ate slowly, chewing thoughtfully as she looked at her young cousin James, who was just her age. He would probably be as large a man as Marcus when he reached his full growth. Now, though, he had still a boy's slenderness. His hair was fair and slightly curly, his eyes a wonderful dark green, and his chin was square as the devil, stubborn, if she didn't miss her guess. He was also very quiet, perhaps sullen, his eyes on his plate, eating one bite after the other without pause. He seemed oblivious of all of them. She remembered Ursula saying that he was angry because he wanted to be the man of the family, not Trevor. She noted
the very beautiful onyx ring on the index finger of his right hand. It was set in an intricate gold design. She wondered idly where he'd gotten it.

The time crawled. She had no more thought, idle or otherwise, she was too bored, too itchy. She wished Marcus would come in. She just wanted to look at him. She also wanted to look at his ribs and his arm to see that he'd healed properly.

Finally, when she knew escape was now possible, she smiled and rose. “Forgive me, but I have business to see to. If you will all excuse me.”

“She thinks she's royalty, the stupid bitch.”

“What did you say, Mama?”

“I said her gown is lovely, and looks quite rich.”

Mr. Crittaker choked on the muffin he was eating.

She walked sedately from the breakfast room, though, truth be told, she would have preferred running.

She went to the small back morning room she had taken over, and set herself to reading the
London Times.
She read the society pages, trying to find some amusing tidbits, but failed. It held only a mite of her attention for about ten minutes. She kept thinking about Marcus, wondering where he was.

She couldn't wait to see what he made of that mincing fop, Trevor.

 

Marcus slowed Stanley to a canter, enjoying the fresh summer air on his face. The sun was high overhead, a bit warm, but no matter. Where was that wretched coxcomb, Trevor?

The gall of the man, stealing his ill-tempered stallion, Clancy, despite Lambkin's assurances that the brute was mean and vicious and not to be trusted. Lambkin had said the American gentleman had just laughed, mounted Clancy without a single problem, and ridden off to the east. So Clancy had been feeling charitable, more's the pity. Ah, but it never lasted. He hoped his cousin wasn't dead, yet.

Marcus had been riding over three hours now, and still no sign of that poaching sod, Trevor. He'd stopped to speak to his tenants when he chanced upon them, feeling oddly warm inside when they greeted him enthusiastically and welcomed him home. The men had asked him all about the damned Frogs, finally beaten down into the ground just as they'd deserved, flattened by our British troops, aye, and about that tyrant, Napoleon, the king—no, bloody
emperor
—of the clobbered Frogs. His tenants treated him as if he'd been the one to make Napoleon abdicate single-handedly. The wives had smiled at him and given him cider. The children had regarded him with favorable awe.

It had felt good, damned good. For the first time, he'd felt like he really belonged here. As the master of Chase Park, as the earl of Chase. Maybe.

Marcus realized he was hungry. Where was Trevor? Had Clancy finally turned into himself again—treacherous bugger—and thrown him? Was he dead at this moment? A nice thought, that. No, he'd probably sprained his ankle and was limping gracefully back to the Park, one white soft hand pressed against his brow. Maybe he was even quoting some of Byron's poetry to romanticize his trifling complaints.

Marcus snorted, then chanced to see someone riding toward him from the north. He pulled Stanley to a stop and waited.

It couldn't be the fop, Trevor. No, as Clancy got closer, he saw that the man riding toward him was big, as large as he was—that is, the top part of him was. Maybe he was a dwarf with short legs, but Marcus didn't think so. The man rode as one with that brute, Clancy, swaying easily in the saddle, in complete control, his gloved hands holding the reins easily. Damnation. It had to be that bloody Trevor.

When Clancy got close enough, Marcus, absolutely furious, feeling like a damned fool, shouted, “Why the hell didn't you change your bloody fop's name?”

The man didn't answer until he'd pulled Clancy to a well-mannered halt directly in front of Stanley's nose. He grinned, a white-toothed grin that held mockery, an infuriating understanding, and a good deal of humor. He shrugged, then said, in a soft southern Colonial drawl, “I presume you're my cousin Marcus? The earl?”

Marcus stared at the man, a man with vibrant, nearly harsh features, strong nose and jaw, thick black hair and eyes as green as the water reeds that grew thick in the pond in the Chase gardens. He was muscular as hell, his body powerful, obviously an athlete, his posture indolent yet bespeaking authority. He simply didn't look like a Trevor, damn his sod's eyes.

“Yes. Why didn't you change your name? Good God, man,
Trevor!
It's enough to make a real man puke.”

Trevor laughed, showing dimples that didn't look at all effeminate, but rather powerfully charming. Marcus would wager this man was a terror with women. He wanted to hate his guts, but he found he couldn't. He even found himself smiling back at those damned dimples. Trevor said in that lazy drawl of his—stretching out endlessly, like thick honey, just taking its time—that should have made him sound like an affected half-wit, but didn't at all, “It does tend to lead people to think of me in a different way,” Trevor Wyndham said easily. “That is, naturally, until they meet me. I believe my late father, another one of your uncles, thought it an elegant name. That aside, in all honesty, it is better than the other names he and my mother landed on my head.”