What a Duke Wants (12 page)

There’d been the smallest of temptations to pretend that he was ill. Under those circumstances she was sure that Mrs. Wattington would keep her on until the crisis was past. That, however, would not have solved anything.

Looking down at her still quivering fingers, Isabella knocked and then hid them in her skirts.

Mrs. Wattington opened the door quickly. The shock of it caused Isabella to step back. Mrs. Wattington never opened the door. She always called for Isabella to enter—unless she’d been expecting someone else.

Isabella stepped into the room, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the floor.

“You think you’re the smart one, don’t you?” Mrs. Wattington snapped before Isabella was even over the threshold.

The smart one? Isabella had spent the last hour thinking what an idiot she was, wondering how she could have risked it all for so little.

Awkward silence continued for a moment and Isabella realized that Mrs. Wattington expected an answer.

She raised her gaze to the height of Mrs. Wattington’s hands. “No, ma’am. I don’t feel very smart.”

“Proud, then. I can’t believe I let you near my dear, sweet Joey. I do hope you haven’t corrupted him already.” Mrs. Wattington’s hands clenched tight, the knuckles white with stress.

The baby wasn’t more than three months old! Isabella doubted her corrupting powers were anywhere near that powerful. And if she was so bad an influence, why had Mrs. Wattington sent her take care of him before coming to her? “I am sorry, ma’am.”

Mrs. Wattington turned from her in a swirl of skirts. “If it weren’t for His Grace I’d have had you out of here an hour ago. As it is, I can’t believe he had the nerve to ask me to show kindness and understanding. What right does that man have? He obviously was not thinking clearly—didn’t seem like a duke at all. I should have known better than to hire a girl of your age—too young by far. Only got one thing on the mind, you do. I knew I should have taken someone with more experience. If only my dear Henry hadn’t persuaded me you’d be a good companion. I’d heard from my maid that you’d been seen out with a man, an attractive man—but this, I never dreamed of this. You probably had this planned from the start.”

His Grace had intervened? Mark and the duke must be closer than he’d let on. Isabella sincerely doubted she was more than a year younger than Mrs. Wattington. And as for planning it from the start—yes, her whole goal had been to be caught with a groom in the duke’s chamber of an inn far too close to London. This was exactly what she had wanted. She had to bite her tongue until she tasted blood to keep from spitting out the remarks.

“I am sorry, ma’am.” She knew she was repeating herself.

Mrs. Wattington whirled again. “I don’t know what His Grace expects me to do. I can’t keep you. I certainly can’t write you a reference. It’s all fine for the man to say he’ll take care of everything, but that doesn’t tell me what to do.”

He’ll take care of everything
. Those sounded like Mark’s words. For a few moments after she’d left the room, Isabella had dreamed that he meant marriage. It was what she’d been brought up to expect. When a well-bred girl was caught in a compromising situation it meant only one thing—marriage. Of course she was no longer that fine young lady. The same rules did not apply to nursery maids as to daughters of the gentry.

“I will just have to let you go, no matter what he thinks or does. I don’t see what else I can do. And for that matter I don’t see what His Grace expects to do—at least not that he’d speak to me about. I can think of plenty of other things he’d have in mind. Although I can’t imagine you’d still hold any appeal for him now that he’s had you. Men lose interest very fast.”

The woman was bitter. Isabella wasn’t sure that it was because of her, or— Her mind suddenly caught up with Mrs. Wattington’s words. “What do you mean His Grace has had me?”

“Oh don’t be so coy. Had his pleasure on you. Tupped you. Do you really need me say more?”

“But—His Grace—Strattington—I never—”

“Don’t be a cow. I saw you with my own eyes, as did half the inn. Are you really telling me that his breeches were down and your skirts were up so that he could put a cool cloth on your face?” Mrs. Wattington glared at Isabella’s cheek. “That is what he claimed, by the way. He seemed to expect that just because he is a duke I’d pretend I hadn’t seen what I saw, that I’d let you continue to care for my innocent Joey.”

Isabella’s belly filled with rocks, almost dragging her knees to the floor. A moment ago she hadn’t believed this could get any worse. Now she knew better. “The duke, you say? Strattington himself?”

“You are clearly a wanton. I had no idea you were also an imbecile. Yes, Strattington. How many other dukes have had their way with you today?”

Isabella dropped her gaze to her feet. She wasn’t sure if her mind was whirling like a child’s top or frozen in place. “That was Strattington?”

“I do believe the shock must have dimmed your wits entirely. Now go. I expect you gone quickly—within the hour if possible. I will not pay for another night’s lodgings. No matter what His Grace thinks there is nothing else to be done. It would be most unwise for you to try and talk to him. He will forget about you by dawn. I hope I am clear.”

Isabella couldn’t think at all. Her life had dissolved about her once before, but nothing could have prepared her for the cold that filled her now.

She couldn’t look up at Mrs. Wattington as she left the chamber.

Chapter 12

W
ages. She hadn’t even asked for her wages. Not that Mrs. Wattington would have paid her anyway, but she should have asked. It would have been the sensible thing to do.

Sensible. Not that anything she’d done in the last day—the last week—could be described as sensible.

Isabella sat on her bag by the side of the road and waited. She didn’t even know for what. Morning light was finally filling the sky, but it brought no joy. She’d just left the inn last night and started walking—walking into the darkness.

Her feet hurt, her legs also. She didn’t know how far she had walked before the sun came up, but it could not have been far enough. The few coins in her bag weren’t even enough to jingle. The innkeeper’s wife had given her enough bread that she wouldn’t starve, at least not today.

And now she couldn’t move. She needed to go farther, but her feet seemed determined to stay put.

She’d heard of brave soldiers who after the battle was done were unable to move. That was how she felt now.

Mark was Strattington.

Her entire being hurt with that knowledge, immobilizing her. She had dreamed like a fool and once again the world had come to knock her back where she belonged.

It had been so naïve to let herself begin to believe that she might care for him, might love him. She had let herself believe because she wanted to, because it made everything so much easier—and this is what it got her. Nothing. Less than nothing.

Mark was Strattington. Why had he not told her? Had he been intent on seduction from the start? But wouldn’t a duke have stood a better chance at persuading a companion and nursery maid than an—an estate manager?

Ashes. Her mouth tasted like ashes. She’d heard that expression once, but had never realized its truth. Even after Foxworthy died she had not known that lost dreams had a taste, a flat, bitter one.

Knowing that Mark was laughing at her, had never cared for her, certainly wouldn’t marry her, was so painful that it felt like a silk cord cutting into her neck, cutting off her air.

No. Mark had never existed. He had been a creature only of her dreams, her wishes.

It was the duke who laughed, Strattington, if he thought of her at all. If she thought of Mark by his title it hurt less. She could live with the duke laughing at the trick he had played on her, cursing only that fate had interrupted his ultimate seduction.

That humiliation was part of why she had walked away from London, back the way they’d come. It would have been unbearable to have him pass her on the road, to know that he might laugh, if he even saw her at all.

But maybe he would stop, maybe he would call to her to get in, take her sore feet upon his lap and. . .

She bit down on her lip as hard as she could. Had she learned nothing? Surely she was not still so naïve. She had to stop dreaming, dreaming was for the young and innocent. It had been a long time since she’d been either of those things.

The pounding of hooves sounded down the road, coming from the direction she had just trudged.

Mark was coming for her. Her heart missed a beat before her mind took over.

Mark wasn’t coming. Mark didn’t exist. Strattington would never come for her.

And a woman didn’t need to be caught alone by the side of the road. She snatched up her bag and hustled over the fence and behind the hedge, ducking low as she went. She bent lower as two men on horseback came up the road at a fast trot—one of them wearing a blue jacket.

It was too late to flee.

She huddled lower, glad for the dull color of her dress. She wished she could fade into the low bushes. They paused on a low rise directly opposite her on the road. The one in the blue coat looked around.

“We must have missed her,” he said to his companion. “She can’t have come this far.”

“Maybe the innkeeper was mistaken in her direction. I don’t see why she should be heading back the way she came.”

“I’ve been searching for Miss Masters for over a year now. I should have grabbed her the other day. I would have taken her sooner, but she was doing the work for me, heading to London. Masters will only pay if we actually produce the girl. Let’s try another mile or two and then visit the nearby farms. She won’t get away from me now.” Blue Coat kicked his heels and was off. His companion followed.

Isabella stayed on the ground, her arms wrapped about her knees.

“W
hat do you mean she’s not here?” Mark questioned the innkeeper.

“She left sometime just after full dark. That is really all I know. I would suggest that you speak to Mrs. Wattington,” the innkeeper replied, his brow coated with sweat.

“I will do just that.” Mark turned and pounded up the stairs. He had been very specific last night in his talk with Mrs. Wattington. Nothing was to happen to Isabella until he’d had a chance to make his offer. He would be most displeased if his instructions had been disregarded.

He passed his own chamber and swept up another flight of stairs. Standing before Mrs. Wattington’s door, he paused.

He had never felt as much the duke as he did at this moment. Displeasure, indeed. He swore his glance would freeze said lady where she stood. He raised his hand, dropped it, and strode more softly back down the stairs.

The duke did not pound. He sent someone else to do it for him.

It took the barest of moments to have Divers heading back to Mrs. Wattington’s door. As he glanced about his own chamber, his eyes fell upon the table that had caused so much trouble. He set his chair beside it deliberately, moving all the other chairs to the side of the room.

He sat and waited.

There was a light tap on the door.

He waited. This time nobody would enter without his call.

The tap repeated and he bid his guest enter.

Mrs. Wattington entered the room, back stiff. “You wished to see me, Your Grace.”

Mark stared at her, lifted one brow, made it clear she should have waited to be addressed. His uncle had always used a monocle at such a moment. He would have to have Divers procure one. “I have been told that Miss Smith has left the inn.”

Mrs. Wattington raised her gaze to his face and then quickly dropped it again. “I believe that is correct, Your Grace.”

“I thought I was quite specific that I wished her to remain.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And did you not understand me?”

“I am sorry. She left on her own.”

“So you did not dismiss her?”

Mrs. Wattington looked at him again. “What else was I to do? I could not let her continue to care for my innocent child.”

“So you disobeyed me?” He rested an arm on the table, tapping his fingers slowly.

The woman did not answer for a moment. He could feel the consideration in her gaze. Finally she ventured, “You seemed quite emotional when you spoke. I believed you would have reconsidered by morning. A gentleman does not wish to be confronted by his mistakes. I thought it wise to remove her.”

He stopped tapping. “You thought to choose for me how I would feel in the light of day? You trusted your own judgment over my very clear words?”

Mrs. Wattington swallowed, visibly. “I was merely trying to do what was best.”

Mark stared back at her, letting his gaze wander from her toes to her hurriedly brushed hair. He made no bones that he found her wanting, somebody to be easily dismissed. “So you deliberately chose to ignore me? That is what you are saying, yes?”

Her glance fell to her hands, hands that were very tightly clenched. “It is just that you seemed so—so overwrought, not rational, not befitting a duke at all.”

“Not befitting a duke. Hmm. Tell me, Mrs. Wattington,” he asked, “does your husband like London? Was he looking forward to attending events around the coronation, making contacts? It is such pity that he received no invitations.”

“Oh, but he did. My husband wrote and told me that—”

“I am sure when you arrive, you’ll find that you were quite mistaken. I don’t believe he will be received anywhere—at least not if you are accompanying him.” Mark had no idea if he actually had such power. His uncle would have, but he was not his uncle. Still, he imagined that the eligible Duke of Strattington would be quite desired by those with unmarried daughters, and that was power in itself. Divers certainly went on endlessly about the choice of bride he’d have once he put his mourning aside.

“What do you . . .” Mrs. Wattington’s voice trailed off as her understanding caught up with his words.

“You had best hope that she is unharmed when I find her or you will find yourself unwelcome anywhere outside of your own home and perhaps even there—I do not know how understanding your husband is.”

“I, well, I—that is . . .” Mrs. Wattington did not know what to say. She turned to leave, but the slightest of coughs had her feet frozen in place.

There was a bee buzzing outside the window. Mark turned his glance and watched it throw itself against the glass before heading off in another direction. He pushed himself to his feet and walked to the door leading to his bedchamber. Not befitting a duke, indeed. He stopped for a moment, without looking at Mrs. Wattington, who stood frigid. “I will trust you can find the door—that I do not need to have you shown out.”

Divers stood just inside the bedroom door. He did not even pretend he had not been listening. “So it is true then?”

“Yes, it is true. I was caught at an indelicate moment with Mrs. Wattington’s companion.”

“I heard it was her baby nurse.”

“I believe Miss Smith has served in both capacities.”

Divers did not say anything, but continued to pack neck cloths into a trunk.

“You have something further to say? Please speak freely,” Mark said.

Divers pressed his lips tight, but then turned and spoke. “It is simply not fitting to your station to be seducing the servants. You need a wife and an heir. If you need more, you should take a proper mistress and be discreet about it. There is a house near St. James.”

He pushed aside the reminder that his behavior was not fitting for the mighty Duke of Strattington. He never wanted to hear that again.

The information about the house, now that was good to know. He had planned to buy Isabella a house, but if there was one waiting, so much the better. “Did my uncle  . . . ?”

“It is not my place to discuss what happens in private. I am sure you would not wish me talking about your affairs.” Divers turned back to the packing.

Mark could only snort. “At this moment I am sure you would only be one of many—but yes, I value my privacy.”

“Then you should learn to lock the damn door.” Douglas strode in.

“I was wondering when you’d arrive and say your piece.” Mark turned to Douglas.

“I’ll hold my counsel for the moment. I imagine you’re itching to be off after the girl.”

“You’re not . . .” Divers let his words trail off.

“You just said I should acquire a mistress.” Mark didn’t know why he felt the need to answer.

“But you don’t know anything about her. She might be a criminal for all you know.” Divers gave up all pretense of work. “I heard a man making inquiries about her, about Miss Smith. There is clearly something going on. And the way she ran—that can only mean one thing.”

“Oh be quiet, man.” Douglas turned on him before Mark could. “She’s a young girl who’s lost her employment and has every man for three miles wondering if her titties could possibly be as wondrous as described. I don’t blame her for leaving as fast as she could.”

“Are they really wondering . . . ?” Mark could hardly bring himself to ask.

“Yes. But that is not why I am here. I need to leave you. The more I ask Mr. Downs about those leases in Wales, the stranger the answers become. I am off to do some investigating of my own. I’ll rejoin you in London. Unless you don’t think you can track the lass on your own.”

Mark had been about to question Douglas further, but the last stopped him. “Don’t worry, I’ll find her. She’ll be with me again by nightfall.”

S
he was still shaking. Even after she’d been sitting in the mud for half an hour in the ever-increasing heat, Isabella’s hands would not be still. And the knot in her belly  . . . She would not even think of that—it had arrived long before the man in the blue coat. From the moment she’d realized who Mark was it had sat there, eating away at her innards.

It was hard to believe she had been such a fool, on so many fronts.

Forcing her mind to the more immediate, she blew out a long, slow sigh, slowly rising to her feet. Her gaze scanned the countryside in all directions.

The man in the blue coat worked for her brother. At least she knew now. She was not as scared of her brother as she was of the law. Being returned to him would be unpleasant, but he would not have her proclaimed a murderess. At least she didn’t think he would.

She rose partway, stretching the cramp from her legs.

If she did let Blue Coat take her, it would not be the end of the world. Masters’s only hold on her was monetary. Although it must be admitted that standing in the mud, wearing one of the only two dresses she owned, with only a few coins in her pocket, she’d do quite a lot for a little money. And Masters would take advantage of that. Masters took advantage of everything. It brought chills to her stomach to think of the things he might make her do—the men he might make her marry.

But what if it wasn’t only Masters looking? That thought was an icy breeze sucking the breath from her body.

Her gut told her that the man who had grabbed her on the stairs at the inn was not the man in the blue coat. The man in the blue coat spoke only of her brother, not of the mysterious “it” he demanded she give to him.

The mud squished beneath her shoes as she sat back down, resting on her heels.

The man who’d grabbed her knew about Foxworthy.

He had threatened her with a noose.

She could be tried for murder if she didn’t deliver him the mysterious “it.” And soon he would know she was running from London, not acting as directed. What would he do if he did catch her?

And what was the “it”? She ran through the list of papers she’d taken again. IOU. Love letters. Bills. Meaningless scribbles. It still made no sense.