The Wyndham Legacy (22 page)

He laughed, dismissing all her fine talk—the bloody fool—took her hand, and laid it in the crook of his arm. He patted her hand. Let him think she would fold, like a sheet in the hands of the upstairs maid.

She knew she'd hurt him, at least a bit. Wasn't he planning retaliation? Surely he wouldn't ignore what she'd done. He'd try something, indeed a man like Marcus wouldn't allow another person, particularly a feeble woman, a token wife who'd saved his damned hide and had thus, obviously earned his contempt and his indifference, to get away with what she'd done to him. She'd struck him repeatedly with the riding crop then hit the side of his head with a bridle. What was wrong with him? Ah, she knew Marcus better than he knew her, at least as of today, she knew him better. She was ready, just let him try his worst.

 

“I think Mr. Badger is wonderful.”

“He's a servant, Ursula. Pray mind your tongue and remember who you are.”

“I'm an American, Mama.”

“You are the granddaughter of an earl. Mind your tongue.”

Trevor said easily, “I would say that Ursula has got it right, Mother. All of us are Americans. I fought the British,
despite my antecedents. Besides, that isn't the point here. Badger is a man with more talents than most I've ever known.”

Marcus said to Ursula, “What do you think of Spears?”

“Mr. Spears is ever so kind and patient. He has a beautiful singing voice. Today I heard him singing a song about Lord Castlereagh and the upcoming Congress in Vienna. It was very funny even though I didn't understand all of it.”

“I believe I heard the Duchess humming it as well,” Trevor said. “Do you remember the words, Duchess?”

She gently lay her teacup back on the exquisite Meissen saucer and recited:

“Vienna's the place to make your mark.
Bring enough groats so they'll roll over and bark.
    Tallyrand will cede France for a bagatelle;
    Castlereagh has most of Portugal to sell.
Don't forget to lie through your teeth.
Dance on your tongue, not on your feet.
    It's time to steal; it's time to play;
    By all that's holy, it's the diplomat's day.”

“How the devil do you know that ditty?”

She slowly turned her head toward her husband. “Why shouldn't I know it, Marcus? I am a sentient human being, truly, despite what you or others may think. Don't you think it clever? I myself believe the writer of these ditties to be beyond clever. There's real talent in them.”

“There have been many of them and it seems that Spears knows all of them. But you are a woman, Duchess. How do you know it, and by heart?”

“Ursula just told us that Spears was singing it. I do listen occasionally. I have an excellent memory. Most ladies do, Marcus.”

She was lying and he simply didn't know why. She was mocking him, another unexpected result of the attack in the tack room. She'd changed, but perhaps not. Damnation, but
she fascinated him. He frowned at her even as he accepted a cup of tea from his worshipful cousin, Fanny, who fluttered her long eyelashes at him, eyelashes that would slay many a young gentleman when she had her Season in London in three years. Was it three years? He must remember to ask the Duchess. His wife.

“It's clever but you don't sing it well,” Aunt Wilhelmina said. “Ursula here has a lovely voice. I trained her myself.”

“Oh, Mother! The Duchess is perfect. Did you hear her recite the ditty? She's wonderful.”

“Not all the time,” Marcus said. “No, there are many sides to her, and after this afternoon, I have discovered that not all of them are what a man would expect.”

 

She had no intention of staying in her bedchamber that night to see if he would come to her. He was a man who was used to being in control. Truth be told, she was afraid that if he touched her she would melt all over him. She couldn't allow that. She moved to the small bedchamber at the end of the east corridor known as the Gold Leaf Room and burrowed beneath covers that were old and musty and smelled of years of disuse. She couldn't sleep, but not because of the strangeness of the bed. When her thoughts weren't of Marcus and what the devil she was going to do, they were of the Wyndham treasure—what it was and where it was. A treasure from the time of Henry VIII. That there had been such a treasure she now accepted completely.

She sighed, threw back her covers. In a few minutes, she was walking quietly into the vast Wyndham library, her single candle casting little useful light throughout that room with its high bookcases that stretched from floor to ceiling. Where to begin?

She lit a branch of candles then began at the left-hand side of the door with the books at the very bottom.

A clock in the corridor outside the library chimed four strokes when she at last looked up. She had no idea it was so late. She held the huge volume in her arms, still
not believing her luck. She felt elation at her discovery. When she'd come to the library, she'd really not believed she'd find anything. Ah, but she had. Carefully, she eased it down on the massive mahogany desk and gently separated the pages.

It was the same tome that Mr. Burgess had, all in Latin script and with those strange drawings.

She'd found it quite by accident just moments before when she'd dropped an incredibly old book whose pages weren't cut, but had still been dusted once a month by the industrious house staff, but never read. And behind that old book had been this tome, layers of dust on it, obviously not seen or read for as many years as it was old.

Who had hidden the book and why? She felt her heart begin to pound as she turned those final pages. The drawings were just a bit different, but to be expected since each tome had been done one at a time. St. Swale's Abbey still appeared unutterably depressing, drawn in such stark black, and the scene in that village square was as strange as the other. Slowly, she turned the page. There were final pages here, not ripped out as they'd been in Mr. Burgess's copy.

It was in Latin, naturally, and there were two more pages.

She leaned down, bringing the branch of candles close to study the words. She could make out some of them. There was the name Cromwell, ah yes, the vice-regent for Henry VIII, and something about men he'd sent, arrogant young men who owed their souls to their master, Cromwell. She skimmed her finger down the page, stopping when she recognized the word for tree and cistern. Defeated with the remaining text, she turned the final page and to her surprise, there was one more drawing. It showed an incredibly old oak tree, gnarled and bent, towering over an ancient stone well. There was an old leather-bound bucket attached to a chain from the crossbar above. There were piles of rocks in the background, not set at random, but rather planned. But what did they represent? The oak tree dominated and it was
on a small rise. The sky was blackly ominous, seeming to bear down on the scene, the stroke of the quill strong, the stark black lines still as black as sin.

Then, quite suddenly, she heard something, naught but a small sound, perhaps just the wind whispering, but not here, not in this immense, closed library, but there it was again, that small sound, as if someone were breathing softly, but it was still in the back of her mind, not alerting her really until it was too late. She was turning when she glimpsed a shadow and felt a rush of panic just at the moment the pain against her temple sent her into blackness.

S
HE OPENED HER
eyes to see Marcus's face very close to hers. He looked worried, definitely worried. About her? No, Marcus didn't care enough about her to worry. She blinked and yet again she saw the lines of his face deepened, his blue eyes darkened even more. Why would Marcus be upset? It made no sense. Besides, he was blurry, so she had to be wrong. Without warning, a shaft of pain nearly sent her back into the darkness. She moaned with the shock of it.

“Marcus,” she said. She raised her hand, but felt him gently draw it back down. “Shush,” he said. “Just hold still. I know it hurts. You've a huge lump behind your left ear. Hold still, all right?”

She wanted to speak, but knew if she did, the pain would redouble in its force. She nodded and closed her eyes against it.

She felt his fingers on her face gently pushing the hair from her forehead, smoothing it behind her ears. Then she felt a cool, wet cloth cover her forehead. “Spears said that soft muslin soaked in rosewater would help reduce the pain. Badger says that you can't have laudanum yet, not until we're certain you didn't scramble your brains with that blow you took.”

He cupped her cheek in his palm then, and without thought, she turned her face ever so slightly to press against his warm flesh. “That's right, try to relax. When you're better you can tell us what happened. James found you unconscious on the library floor, the candles guttering on
the desk above you. It was the candlelight that brought him into the library. He thought you were dead.

“I must say, Duchess, you gave me the fright of my life, not to speak of what poor James felt. He was stammering with fright, white-faced as any famous castle specter. Don't do that again. You must have fallen and hit your head on the edge of the desk. It was after four in the morning when James found you. What were you doing there? No, keep quiet, I forgot. Just be still. We'll sort all this out later. Keep your eyes open for me. That's right. And relax. Badger says we're to keep you awake. That's why I'm carrying on like a crazed magpie.

“Now, tell me how many fingers I'm holding up.”

She saw the fingers, blurred, but she saw them. She wet her lips and whispered, “Three.”

She gasped with the pain that simple word brought her.

The cloth was lifted from her forehead and another laid gently in its place. It felt wonderful. She wished she could tell him that it felt so very good, but the pain was leaching at her senses and she knew just keeping awake would require everything in her.

She felt his large hand against her breast, heard him say quietly, “Her heartbeat is slow and steady, Badger. Stop hovering, man, she's fine.”

“I know, I know,” she heard Badger say. “I knew her heartbeat would be strong. No surprise there. She's a strong girl, she always was. Keep the covers to her chin, my lord. We'll keep the lass warm and quiet. But awake. She must stay awake.”

She realized then she was safe. No one could strike her again, not with Marcus and Badger here with her. She heard Spears say as he walked toward the bed, “I have prepared the mixture you detailed, Mr. Badger. If you can gently move her head, my lord, I will apply the mixture to the lump.”

“It will reduce the swelling and make the pain lessen,” Badger said.

“I don't want to hurt her,” Marcus said, but then he moved her head on the pillow.

She didn't realize she was crying until she felt someone wipe the tears off her cheeks and gently daub at her closed eyes. Marcus said very softly, “Gently now, Duchess. Spears has the lightest fingers of all of us. It will hurt though, but then it will be better. That's what Badger promises. If he's wrong I'll let you smack him on the side of the head. That will make three of us with headaches.”

Spears applied the salve. Suddenly she felt nausea twist and roil in her stomach, adding to the dreadful pounding in her head. She swallowed convulsively.

Badger said, “Breathe deeply, Duchess. That's right. It will make the sickness go away. No, don't fight it. Do as I tell you. Deeply. Good.”

When at last they gave her laudanum, she actually felt better, but Marcus wouldn't allow her yet to speak. “No, Duchess, I want you to sleep.”

She managed to whisper to him, “Don't leave me.”

He was silent for a moment, a surprised silence that went on so long she was afraid that he didn't know how to tell her that he didn't want to remain. Then, however, he said easily, “I won't leave you, I promise.”

 

She took stock of her injuries. There was a dull thudding over her left eye. The nausea was gone, as was the debilitating pain from the blow to her head. Slowly, she opened her eyes. Marcus wasn't there and she cried out, panicked and afraid.

“I'm here,” he said, and she watched him stride quickly back to her bed. “Shush, I'm here.”

“You promised you wouldn't leave me.”

“I just wandered to the fireplace, no destination further away than that. Ah, and once I did have to relieve myself, Duchess. But I sent Badger in to oversee your sleep whilst I was gone. How do you feel?”

“I did feel like a keg of ale that rolled off the wagon and splatted on the cobblestones. Now, the keg only has a small leak.”

“I felt something like that,” he said, then grinned at her, leaned down, and lightly touched his mouth to hers. His mouth was warm and reassuring. “Now, here's tea for you. Badger said you would be thirsty and this fancy herbal tea he mixed for you would be just the thing.”

He helped her drink, then said, “Are you hungry?”

“No, nothing. The tea is very good.”

“You promise me you feel all right now?”

“Yes, the leak is merely a small crack now.”

“Good.” His voice lost its sweetness and became a low furious roar. “What the hell were you doing in the library with guttered candles at four o'clock in the morning?”

She wanted to laugh but a small smile was all she could manage. “The Wyndham legacy. I went searching for clues and I found another old book just like Mr. Burgess's.”

He frowned as he said, “You should have awakened me if you wanted to go treasure hunting. You won't go do anything alone again. Now, about that book—there wasn't one there when I got down to the library.”

“Someone hit me and took it. Actually I guess someone saw me reading it and struck me down in order to take it.”

“No,” he said. “That's simply not sensible. You must misremember, Duchess. You must have slipped and fallen. You must have struck your head on the edge of the desk.”

“I'm sorry, but someone did strike me, Marcus.” She saw that he believed her, but he didn't want to. To accept it meant that someone in the house had deliberately hurt her, that someone was up to no good. She didn't want to believe it either.

“That cursed treasure,” he said, and continued to swear as he plowed his fingers through his hair. “Where did you find the book?”

“Behind another one on a lower shelf that hadn't ever been read or moved, just dusted periodically.”

Surprisingly, he said, “All right. You went to the library to look for a clue and you found the book. Were you in the library long? I went to your bedchamber and you weren't there. I was perturbed—about many things—but I didn't go looking for you.”

“I went to the Gold Leaf Room but I couldn't sleep. As I said, I went to the library to search for a clue—I never even thought to believe I'd find the book, find anything that was important—but I did find it. Only someone else must have seen the candlelight. I didn't hear anything, not really, just this slight movement, this sort of whispering sound, but I was concentrating so hard on the text and the sketch—”

He gently touched his fingertips to her lips. “Don't get upset, you'll just make yourself sick. Close your eyes a moment and breathe deeply. That's right. Just relax, Duchess.”

He studied her face as she stilled. She was very pale, terrifyingly so, but Badger had sworn to him that she would be fine. Just a bit more time, he'd said.

Her breathing evened into sleep. Slowly, he rose from the bed and stretched. He wanted a bath and clothes. He rang for Maggie and she came, her glorious hair becomingly tousled, for it was still early, barely eight o'clock in the morning. At least she was dressed now. Before she'd dashed in wearing a peignoir that a London mistress would be proud to own, a feathered silk affair of pale peach. Just who, he wondered, had bought that for her? Her taste was flamboyant, but really quite good. The peignoir was something a man would buy, expensive, but gaudy and screaming sex.

He sent her to search out Badger, who just happened to be with Spears in his own bedchamber, just beyond the adjoining door.

Damned meddlers, he thought.

* * *

She was sitting up in bed, still weak, but now she felt in control again. She hated being sniveling and helpless.

“You still look pale as death,” Maggie said as she gently braided her hair. “But since you looked like death itself just this morning, what you look like now is an improvement.”

“Thank you, Maggie.”

“You must eat some more of the barley soup Mr. Badger made for you. It should taste quite delicious to someone who nearly stuck her spoon in the wall but didn't, and thus should be grateful to be able to eat anything at all. I took a sip but it didn't suit me. I'm well, you see, not sickly like you, Duchess. I don't feel like I'm going to puke up my innards, not like you do.”

“I don't think I'll be sick now, Maggie. The nausea is gone.”

“Well, that's a blessing. I don't fancy cleaning up that kind of sickness, mind you.”

Marcus overheard the last of this and was hard-pressed not to smile. He lost the desire when he saw her face. She looked utterly defenseless. The aloof reserve was gone and in its place was a damned vulnerable look that made him flinch. He'd never seen her this way before and he realized that it scared him witless. He realized with a start that he would prefer her yelling at him, calling him a bastard and a sod, even sticking that chin of hers in the air again, anything but staring silently at him as if he weren't worth the words to say to curse him with, as if, somehow, she were afraid of him. No, she couldn't be afraid of him. Soon, she'd be as she had been and he knew it would take some getting used to, that passion of hers, that very loud violent anger of hers, but he wanted to see it again, he wanted to see her face turn red, watch her change from the aloof, bloodless creature into a woman as passionate out of bed as in it. She'd gotten in a quite good blow with that damned bridle.

And someone had struck her down. Someone in this household. And that someone had to be one of the damned
Colonists. Aunt Wilhelmina was his prime candidate, the miserable old besom.

“Hello,” he said, walking to her bed. He leaned down and kissed her cheek. He searched her eyes, saw that they were clear and that pleased him. “You will appreciate that Badger and Spears together took Mr. Tivit beneath his arms and bodily assisted him from this room.”

“I vaguely remember a fat little man with a red face and a loud voice. His black coat was dirty, wasn't it?”

“Yes, filthy. I'm glad you didn't see his hands. That's Mr. Tivit, and he's the local doctor, and a miserable one at that. Anyway, when he pulled out his bleeding instruments and brought over a basin to the bed, Badger told him to take his torture devices out of here and never show his face again. He appealed to me and I told him you were so weak now that if he took any blood from you, you would turn into a beautiful leaf and float away. He huffed, lamenting his wounded dignity all the way to the stables.”

He lifted her hand, enclosing it in his large one. He felt warm, solid. “He is an old fool. I wouldn't have let him near you but Trevor sent for him, not realizing that he was an ancient relic and even as a young man he was a half-wit.”

“Has anyone said anything about what happened?”

“Do you mean has Aunt Wilhelmina broken into tears and confessed all? I'm sorry, Duchess, no such luck. It turns out that James was downstairs on his way out the door to the stables. He had it in his mind that he would visit the ruins just at dawn, and search for the treasure. A romantic notion but one that would have probably just given him an inflammation of the lungs, given our damp mornings.

“Perhaps James struck you down and took the book and then raised the alarm. Perhaps he was afraid he'd killed you or that you would die without help. I don't know, Duchess.” He paused a moment, then looked directly into her eyes. “Why did you leave your bedchamber?”

“I didn't want to stay. I was afraid you would come.”

“I see,” he said, his hackles rising, but he managed to keep both his voice and his expression calm. He'd been stupid to ask her that question given her current condition. No, he would ask it again when she was once more fit and he could yell at her and then toss up her skirts and drive her wild with pleasure. Just maybe she'd yell back at him and . . .

“Why are you smiling, Marcus?”