White Regency 03 - White Knight (22 page)

Christian glanced with unfeigned
reluctance to the door, already knowing who was there and wishing to the very
heavens he were wrong. Surely the saints must be punishing him to demand that
he face both Cholmeley and his grandfather together on the same day.

The Duke of Westover stood, cane in hand,
listening to the exchange between Christian and Cholmeley. His mouth was turned
decidedly downward, his eyes glinting with their usual dark and disapproving
light. Christian could almost hear the old man’s thoughts as loudly as if they
were echoing throughout the room:

What’s this, boy? I get you a perfectly
acceptable wife and you lose her? What kind of duke do you expect to make if
you can’t even keep a simple woman happy?

But even as he thought this, Christian
knew he could no more hold his grandfather responsible for his predicament than
he could blame Grace for having left after the way he had treated her. He and
he alone had brought this on.

Christian waited in giving his response
until the duke had come into his study, taking the chair beside Cholmeley. They
exchanged a short greeting nod before both men turned to stare at Christian
with twin looks of censure.

Christian took a deep breath. “Yes,
it is true. Grace has left. And yes, whether you wish to believe it or not, I
have tried to find her. I have hired four runners to track her, but thus far
they have turned up no trace of her.”

“She can’t have gone far,”
Cholmeley sputtered. “She is, after all, only a woman.”

Only a woman.
Somehow it wasn’t a designation Christian would ever
think again of attributing to Grace.

“I learned quite some time ago, my
lord, never to underestimate the fairer sex.” Christian exchanged a
private glance with his grandfather before continuing. “However, given
that Grace had very little if any ready resources to provide for her, I find it
difficult to believe that she could have gotten far from London, if she did
leave the city at all, which is part of the reason for my remaining in town. I
am hoping she is yet somewhere within the city. If she is, I will eventually
find her. She must have had some monies available to her to have stayed hidden
away as many weeks as she has. Were you aware of her having any ready funds,
Cholmeley?”

The marquess shook his head. “No. She
couldn’t have. I’d have known it.”

And spent it,
Christian thought to himself.

“Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless my mother happened to give
her some pin money before she died. It would be just like the old bird to have
done something like that. She favored independence in women, confused a notion
as that is.”

The duke cleared his throat and leaned
forward on his cane. “I suppose it is a possibility, but is it feasible to
believe that ‘pin money’ could support a girl and her maid—since I assume she
took one with her—for this length of time? Sooner or later she will ran out of
money. The question is, what will she do then?”

A knocking came to the door before anyone
could reflect further on the thought. Forbes came in, bowing his head. “My
lord, a Mr. Jenner is here asking to see you.”

“Jenner?” spouted Tedric.
“Wasn’t he my mother’s man of business? The one who drew up the marriage
contracts?”

“His card does indicate that he is a
solicitor, my lord,” said Forbes, answering Cholmeley’s question.

“He’s probably come about something
to do with a
provision
in the marriage contract that says if the bride disappears, all is null and
void,” chuckled Cholmeley.

Christian wasn’t amused. He said, “In
that case you would then forfeit your share of the settlement.”

The duke smiled. Cholmeley blanched as
Christian turned to Forbes. “Will you tell this Jenner I am presently
occupied and ask him if he can leave whatever paperwork he has.”

“He says it is an urgent matter, my
lord, concerning Lady Knighton and a missive he has received from her.”

“Good God, man, why didn’t you say
so? Show him in.”

Christian looked first to his grandfather
and then to Cholmeley as the butler left to fetch the solicitor. “Not a
word out of either of you until I get to the bottom of this. I will speak to
Mr. Jenner.”

The duke merely nodded, rooted to his
chair. Cholmeley shrugged and stood to help himself to Christian’s brandy
bottle instead.

Within a few moments, Forbes showed in a
small man in plain clothes with ink-stained fingertips. The solicitor glanced
nervously at the other two gentlemen before taking the seat previously put to
use by Cholmeley.

Christian had no notion of how much, if
anything, Jenner knew about Grace’s disappearance. He chose his words
carefully. “Mr. Jenner, it is good to see you again. I understand you have
received some sort of communication from Lady Knighton?”

Jenner looked at the duke and then at
Cholmeley, who had come to stand beside him. Both men were staring at the
solicitor most intently, unsettling him. They did, however, keep to their word
and remain silent.

“Yes, uh, Lord Knighton, I have
received a communication from Lady Knighton, but I believe it is a matter that
might best be discussed in private, my lord. With you.”

Christian waved a hand. “Speak
freely, Mr. Jenner. As you already know, these two gentlemen are members of the
family. They are aware of Grace’s…” He paused and said for wont of a
better term,
“Relocation.”

Jenner looked at the old duke and then
again at Cholmeley. He cleared his throat nervously. “Lady Knighton
has sent this letter to
my offices.” He held out a folded bit of parchment. “It is actually
the third such correspondence I have received from her.”

Christian took the letter and began
reading as Jenner went on. “I cannot forward her any of the funds she
seeks without your signature as her husband, even though the account is hers,
so I—”

“Account?” Cholmeley broke in.
“What’s this about an account?”

Christian glanced at the marquess over the
top of the parchment. “Calm yourself, Cholmeley, until we know what this
is about.”

When he had finished reading the letter,
he looked to Jenner. “Would you care to apprise me of the particulars of
the situation?”

“It would appear I must, my
lord.”

Jenner shuffled through his papers,
handing several sheets to Christian. “The estate was held in trust until
such time as Lady Knighton married, although, by its government, it was not to
be any part of a marriage settlement. It is hers until her death, when it shall
pass to a direct issue of her choosing, since it is not entailed in any way. I had
been charged with the duty of informing Lady Knighton of the existence of the
trust and her part in it but only
after
her marriage, as stipulated by
the trust. I came here to Knighton House many weeks ago and did so.”

Christian scanned the pages that formalized
the Skynegal trust. “And this account you speak of?”

Cholmeley drew closer.

“Again,” Jenner said, eyeing the
elder marquess askance, “the account is a separate enterprise from the
dower contract, the funds of which can be used only for the betterment of the
estate.”

“You keep talking of this
estate?” Cholmeley said, “What’s this about? I know of no estate that
isn’t already entailed to the Cholmeley marquessate.”

Christian returned the trust papers to
Jenner. “It seems,” he said to Cholmeley, “that upon her
marriage to me, Grace became the beneficiary of an estate in northern Scotland,
one Skynegal Castle.”

Cholmeley began to laugh. “That
rotting old pile of
bricks?
I know of it. It was some holding from my mother’s family. No one has lived
there for years. Can’t even be reached by road. I’d have thought it in ruins by
now.” “Oh, I rather doubt that will ever come to pass,”
Christian said, “especially since there exists an account of three hundred
thousand pounds to ensure its continuance.”

“Three hundred thousand!”
Cholmeley began to choke on his brandy, gasping for breath until Jenner stood
without preamble and clapped the marquess hard twice on the back. It only took
Cholmeley another moment to regain his dander.

“You mean to say that little chit has
had a fortune at her disposal while I am forced to live in near-poverty?”
“The monies are not
at her disposal,
Cholmeley,” Christian
reminded him. “According to the trust, they must be used exclusively for
the betterment of Skynegal. And from her letter to Mr. Jenner, it would seem
that is exactly what Grace means to do.”

“With your approval,” Jenner
interjected, gently bringing the subject back to his reasons for coming there.
“As Lady Knighton’s husband, all transactions on the account must bear
your endorsement.”

“Well, at least this trust has some
sense to it,” the old duke muttered. “Imagine turning three hundred
thousand loose to the hands of a woman!”

“In turn,” Jenner added,
“any transaction must also bear Lady Knighton’s endorsement as well.”

The solicitor seemed inordinately
unsettled in the presence of the old duke, for although he never spoke directly
to him, he kept shifting his glance to the old man time and again as they
talked. It was a feeling Christian could easily appreciate.

“Well then, let’s be done with
it,” Christian said, taking his quill from its holder and dipping it into
the inkwell. He started to sign the document Jenner had given him, authorizing
the release of the funds from the account.

“You aren’t really going to lend your
signature to give all that money to her for that moldering old castle, are
you?” Cholmeley exclaimed. “That is precisely what I’m going to do,
my lord.”
Christian
set his quill back in its holder and returned the documents to Jenner’s waiting
hand. “If you would please inform me when the transaction is complete, Mr.
Jenner, I would be obliged.”

Jenner nodded. “Of course. Shall I
also arrange for a courier to deliver the news to Lady Knighton then, my
lord?”

“She does not know of your visit here
today?”

Jenner shook his head. “I did not
know of the stipulation requiring your signature until after Lady Knighton had
already left for Scotland. That is why I waited so long in coming to you. After
receiving her third letter, I grew concerned for her circumstances. I only hope
Lady Knighton will forgive me for breaking her confidence. Begging your pardon,
my lord, but she wanted no one to know where she was going.”

Christian looked at the solicitor. After a
moment, he smiled. “No, sir, a courier will not be necessary. I mean to
deliver the news to Lady Knighton myself in Scotland.”

Skynegal Castle, Highlands

Grace stood in her nightdress at her
bedchamber window, scowling at the dark cloud of smoke that snaked its shadowed
way through the morning sky to the east.

Would the burnings never end?

How she hated knowing that as she stood
there, tucked safely within the fortress of these castle walls, yet another
Highland family was being unjustly forced from their home on the neighboring
estate. It was an event that was happening so frequently of late that the
eastern horizon seemed perpetually smoke clouded.

It began with an unexpected knocking on
the door. The family would answer, only to find that a company of soldiers
awaited them on the other side. They would be handed a Writ of Removal signed
by the estate factor and they would be ordered to vacate the premises, refused
any time for preparation or reflection. Chaos would lay claim to what once had
been peace. They would be given only enough time to grab what little their
hands could carry with them before those who had come to evict them put their
torches to the vulnerable cottage roof, setting everything they’d worked for,
every last thing they owned in the world, aflame.

As the fire began to blaze, the crofters
would scramble to save the single most important possession they could claim,
the cottage’s roof beam. Without it, they might not have the timber necessary
to rebuild elsewhere. They would end up like so many of their neighbors,
seeking shelter in caves, or worse, forced to live among the elements.

If they were fortunate enough to have
their health, the Highlanders could wander to the coast, where they might have
a chance to begin life again. The elderly and the infirm, however, fared far
worse, for if they were too incapacitated to leave by their own volition, they
were simply carried out of their homes without care for their fragile bodies,
dropped upon the bare ground, and left to survive against the elements—if they
survived at all.

Taken by a sudden shiver, Grace reached
for her shawl on the chair beside her, wrapping it closely about herself. The
cloud in the distance billowed and grew. She felt a sudden tickle on her hand
and looked down to where Dubhar sat, licking her fingers and patiently awaiting
a scratch behind his ears. She willingly obliged. For as long as anyone could
remember, the long and lanky deerhound had traveled about from croft to croft
in search of scraps and a warm fire to sleep beside. Everyone knew him, yet
none would lay claim to him. Grizzled gray not unlike McGee’s beard, on hind
legs the dog stood a head taller than Grace. When he’d first come to the castle
one rainy morning not long after Grace’s arrival, he’d been weak with a fever
that left him panting despite the water they offered him. Beneath the mud that
had caked his coat, his body had been naught but hide and bones, his gait
sluggish and marked by a pronounced limp. Alastair had suggested the dog might
have been bitten by an adder and indeed they found a bite on his rear left leg.
The Scotsman predicted he’d likely die, but Grace would have none of it. She’d
taken the dog in, staying up through the night with him, and with the help of
Deirdre and a poultice she’d made from the rowan bark, the fever had broken the
next afternoon.

To see Dubhar now, one would never believe
him the same dog. He had added flesh to his bones and could run more swiftly
than the wind. They had christened him Dubhar, the Gaelic word for the shadow
he had become at his mistress’s side, following Grace from one room to the
other as she walked about the castle. She had saved his life, and thus he now
devoted himself to her.

As Grace stroked her fingers through
Dubhar’s wiry fur, she looked below her window onto the castle courtyard and the
numerous people milling about on the drive. Just like Dubhar, they had come to
Skynegal hoping to be saved.

They were most of them crofters from other
estates who had wandered to the ancient stone towers of Skynegal, having heard
of the mistress there called
Aingeal na Gaidhealthachd,
Angel of the
Highlands. Word had spread quickly that the lady of Skynegal had vowed never to
allow a single eviction on her estate. They came in droves seeking shelter,
food, and clothing, and a touch of compassion. A number of them made
arrangements to emigrate to New Scotland or America and simply sought a safe
place to sleep until the ship that would take them across the sea departed from
Ullapool. Others planned to wander south to Glasgow or the Borders. Grace
hadn’t the heart to turn a single one of them away, so instead she devoted her
days and nights to helping prepare them for their new lives.

After the Scots’ rebellion in 1745, a writ
had been passed called the Act of Proscription, taking the Highlanders into
what was known as “the time of gray.” The wearing of the colorful
tartans they had so proudly displayed for generations, the teaching of Gaelic,
even the playing of the pipes had been forbidden under threat of
transportation. Though the proscription was repealed some forty years later,
its damage had been wrought through a full generation. When Grace learned of
the proscription and its eventual repeal, she immediately set to work on the
design for a distinct tartan, collaborated on with Alastair, Liza, and Deirdre.
Its colors were created by using the various plant life found at Skynegal— a
lovely dark green made from the heath pulled just before flowering from a dark,
shady place; a rich deep red made from the
crotal,
or gray lichen they
had scraped from the moorland rocks; and black made from the rich bark and
acorns of the Highland oaks. The tartan was used to make the clothing for the
refugee Highlanders so that no matter where they might go, be it to other parts
of Scotland or the new world, they would always have a remembrance of Skynegal
and their Scottish heritage with them.

Since the majority of the Highlanders
spoke only
Gaelic,
together with Liza, Alastair, and Deirdre, Grace had begun teaching them
English, as well as reading and writing and simple mathematics. They had set up
pallets stuffed with heather and gorse in the great hall for those who had no
homes or family with whom they could stay, and when that chamber had filled,
they moved on to the others. A good many of the Skynegal tenants had begun taking
in the strangers, echoing the goodwill shown by their mistress.

In turn, those who sought shelter did
their share. While the women were employed in the weaving and sewing of new
clothing for those in need, the men busied themselves with tending the stock of
cattle and sheep in the fields while others contributed to the castle
renovations or the repairs needed at the tenants’ cottages across the estate.
In the space of the handful of weeks Grace had been at Skynegal, this
once-abandoned estate, overgrown and in disrepair, had been transformed into a
small, efficiently working community.

But Grace knew that a community needed
funds to grow and thrive and that was a commodity fast growing scarce. To date
Grace had had no reply to the missive she’d written to Mr. Jenner requesting
additional funds. By her calculations, he should have received it nearly a
month earlier, giving him ample time to reply. After the first couple of weeks,
she’d written again, and then she’d sent a third letter for fear that the first
and even the second had never reached him. Funds were running short. In keeping
the castle stocked with meal and the simplest of necessities, they’d already
run through a good portion of the money Nonny had given her. Just the week
before, Grace had found herself sorting through her small cache of jewelry,
trying to decide which pieces she might sell when next McFee or McGee made the
trip to Ullapool for supplies. In the end, she’d decided she could part with
almost all of it, with the exception of the inscribed timepiece she’d found her
first day at Skynegal and one other—her wedding ring.

Grace turned from the window when she
heard a stirring come suddenly from behind her and was greeted by
Liza coming into her
bedchamber with an armful of freshly washed clothes.

“I was beginning to think you were
going to sleep through the day,” the maid said as she set out a fresh
gown, shift, and stockings for Grace to wear.

Grace shook her head. “I don’t know
what it is, Liza, but I am so tired all the time. I can’t seem to pick myself
out of bed as early as I used to.”

Liza cocked a brow. “You work
yourself too much, my lady. ‘Tisn’t right for a lady of your station to be
toiling as you do.

“So what should I be doing? Standing
around glancing at myself in the mirror when there is so much work to be
done?”

Grace took up her hairbrush and began
pulling it through the tangles in her hair.

“I suppose your fatigue might have
something to do with all the work you do,” the maid said. “But it
could also have a mite to do with the fact that you’re increasing.”

The hairbrush clattered noisily to the
floor. Dubhar sat up on his haunches, wondering at the cause for the
disturbance. Grace turned to stare at Liza, silent and disbelieving.

“Oh, my lady, did you not know?”
Then she added immediately, “Of course you did not. No one’s ever told you
about women and babies and such. But surely you noticed you’ve not had your
monthly since we’ve been to Scotland.”

Grace shook her head, saying at the same
time so softly, she barely heard her own words, “There have been times
when I haven’t bled before and I wasn’t—I wasn’t—I—”

Grace felt her consciousness threaten to
shadow over as if she might faint. She had never fainted in her life, but she
supposed if there ever were a time when fainting would be called for, this was
it. She braced herself against the edge of the dressing table and waited for
the dizziness to pass.

Liza immediately dropped the clothes and
came to her, helping her to sit at the edge of the bed. She took Grace’s hands
in hers. “Oh, I am so sorry, my lady.
Thought you knew of it and just didn’t want to tell
anybody because of the troubles between his lordship and you…”

Christian.
Good God. Grace closed her eyes against a new wave of
what she felt certain now would be a full swoon. Liza squeezed her hand and
patted it.

“My lady, I could be mistaken in
this. I just figured, what with your monthly going missing and your bodice
getting tight like it is—I am a maid, after all, and thus would notice these
things.”

Grace looked down at her breasts, suddenly
noticing the fullness of them swelling beneath the thin fabric of her
nightshift.

“Do you ever feel sore…
there?” Liza asked.

Grace chewed her lip, staring at the maid.
She nodded.

“And I’ve seen you’ve been needing to
use the chamberpot more often, too. My ma once said ‘tis from the babe growing
and pressing upon you inside.”

Still Grace shook her head against the
idea. “But it’s been too long since we left London. Wouldn’t a babe be
more evident?”

Grace looked down at herself, placing a
hand against her abdomen. She had noticed a thickening at her waist, but had
put it off as too many of Deirdre’s oatcakes. To think that it had nothing to
do with the oatcakes at all, but that a tiny life quite possibly grew there…

“Some ladies don’t show they’re with
child right away. Are you all right, my lady? Are you upset? Does this news of
the babe trouble you?”

Grace looked at Liza. At the mention of
it, the thought of a babe had frightened her completely, for she knew nothing
of raising children other than the scarce bits she’d seen while growing up at
Ledysthorpe. But now that she’d had a moment to reflect on it and get past the
shock of it, she found herself filled with a strange sort of warmth that
brought her to smiling.

“No, Liza, the babe does not trouble
me at all. In fact, it makes me very, very happy.”

Liza grinned. “Oh, I am so relieved
to hear you say
that!
It will be such fun having a little ‘un around here, the next generation to
carry on at Skynegal!”

“You’ve come to like this pile of
rocks, have you, Liza?” Grace said, remembering Liza’s pessimism when they
had first arrived at Skynegal.

” ‘Tis the sort of place that grows
on you,” Liza said, tossing her capped head. “But it is only due to
the hand you have put to the place, my lady. I never knew your grandmama, but I
know if she were here and could see all that you have done, she would be very
proud.”

“Thank you, Liza.”

The maid grinned. “Now when the
little ‘un is older, can I teach her how to plant a facer?”

“Liza! Girls should not learn to
fight!”

“You’d think differently if you’d
have been born into my family. ‘Twas a means for survival.”

“Well, then, I suppose it wouldn’t do
any harm for her to learn the proper form of it.” Grace looked at her.
“But what if the babe is a boy?”

Liza thought for a moment, cocking her
head to the side. “Then I’ll teach him how to darn his own hose.”

Grace hugged Liza tightly as they laughed
and sat together at the side of the bed, all while the morning sunshine
suddenly beamed down through the cloud of smoke in the distance.