A Dangerous Nativity (7 page)

Tea and sweets soothed ruffled feathers, but
settled nothing. An uncomfortable hour later, she walked the earl
out.

"Give him time to get used to the idea. He's
been estranged for so long."

The earl took her hand, but instead of bowing
over it, he held it firmly and searched her face.

"What breach keeps him from accepting the
support any well-managed estate would give?" His eyes held nothing
but sympathy and concern.

She couldn't deny him.

"I don't entirely know. I was just twelve
years old. My mother and I had been living with an aunt in
Scotland. Papa brought us back to Wheatton to see her father, who
was vicar here, before he died. The old duke, his father, disowned
him when he married my mother, but could do nothing about Songbird
Cottage. Papa's mother left it to him. I think the old man resented
that."

He looked as if he meant to ask more; she
prayed he didn't. What am I to say? No, my mother wasn't married
when I was born? No, Lord Arthur isn't my natural father?

Before he could, three boys came raging from
the woods.

"The owl, Cath! We saw him," Randy
called.

Once sufficient amazement over the sighting
had been expressed, Chadbourn helped the young duke into their
phaeton. He bowed over Catherine's hand and took his leave, but his
eyes never lost their sympathetic look. It was almost enough to
give a woman hope. Damn the man.

Catherine turned from the sight. The duchess
will not like this day's activity, she thought.

Chapter Six

"But he came in smelling of cow, Chadbourn!
And not for the first time. I told Franklin to burn his clothing,
burn it! You must allow Franklin to birch him." Sylvia sat upright,
but her hands shook, and her pupils looked large in her rheumy
eyes.

"I will not!"

"Emery would have," she whined. "He would
demand it."

"Emery was a jackass, and I am not Emery, for
which, sister, you should be thankful." Will clenched his hands
into fists to keep from wrapping them around the scrawny neck of
the tutor who held his nephew by the jacket, held him so high, the
boy's feet almost lifted from the floor. Charles held his face in a
brave show of courage, but his eyes pleaded with Chadbourn.

"Unhand His Grace this instant," Will
shouted. "You will not birch him today or any other day. Has this
happened before?"

"Only when necessary," Franklin said, chin
up, eyes on Sylvia. "Boys require discipline." He gave Charles a
shake as he pushed the lad away.

Will put an arm around the boy's shoulder. He
could feel tension vibrating through the young body, but Charles
held himself upright.

"From the state of his math knowledge, I
suspect he has had more 'discipline' than learning from you."

"One cannot teach what he will not learn, my
lord." Franklin made the title sound like an insult. "I only follow
His Grace'sthat is the late duke's—wishes," the man sniveled.

"You finally got one thing right. His Grace's
father is the late duke. I will not have my nephew beaten, and
certainly not over a trivial offense."

"Trivial?" Sylvia cried, bringing a look of
satisfaction to the tutor. "He snuck away from his tutor. He went
there, Chadbourn."

Will ignored her. He looked Franklin up and
down. "You're dismissed," he said as calmly as he could manage.

"Fired?" The tutor shook with outrage. "For
following His Grace's orders?"

"For failing to follow mine, and for failing
to teach this boy a blasted thing. Go pack your things." When
Franklin glanced frantically at Sylvia and looked as if he would
argue, Will held up a hand. "Pack your things without a word, and
I'll allow the duchess to provide you with a character reference.
Otherwise, I will toss you bodily from the house without it."

Sylvia cowered beneath Will's tone, and
wept.

"He went there, Chadbourn. Emery forbade it.
We do not go there."

"He went with me yesterday, and he will have
my permission to go again," Will said. He watched the tutor wrap
his dignity around him and leave.

Sylvia began to hiccup, tiny sobs emanating
from her.

Will turned to Charles and smiled into the
boy's pale face. "You do look rather a mess, my boy. You didn't
tell me you went back and left the schoolroom without
permission."

"Sorry, Uncle Will. Fred and Randy sent a
message up with John Footman, and I had to meet them. I had
to."

"Your mother is right about one thing. This
suit is ruined. Do you own clothes that aren't silk, something
suitable for playing?"

"No, sir."

Of course not. "We'll see to it. For now,
remove those clothes and have them laundered for the poor box. For
leaving without permission, I want you to spend the rest of the day
writing out your multiplication tables. Understood?"

Charles grimaced. "Yes, Uncle Will."

The boy left, and Will turned to his sister,
determined to get to the bottom of the animosity with Songbird
Cottage, but she had already slipped into a drug-induced sleep.

***

"You've been busy. I rather think you didn't
need my help." The Marquess of Glenaire, who had arrived just as
Will saw the tutor on his way, sat at his leisure over port.

Thank God he came today before I strangled
the rotter and did the same to Stowe, Will thought. The man's
hostile glares put him in mind to turn off the butler next. I would
if he weren't so blasted old. Better to pension him off, and
soon.

"Oh, but I do," he said. "Besides, you'll
enliven the winter holidays."

White-blond eyebrows shot up over ice-blue
eyes. "I'm hardly one for the sentiments of the season."

"Even your hidebound dignity improves the
mood of this place, Richard. It is driving me to drink." He downed
another glass, while he poured out his woes to his best friend in
the world. "What can you add?" he asked when he his tale wound
down.

"Not much. Lord Arthur is, as you surmised,
the second son of the seventh duke of Murnane. By reputation, he
presented a mild-mannered contrast to his rakehell older brother,
when the two came down from university. Lord Arthur actually
finished a degree and took a first. He went about during the Season
for a few years, sowed a few wild oats—damned few—courted a few
chits unenthusiastically, and avoided house parties. He shunned
society entirely after his marriage. He supports himself on a
meager income from his books."

"That, and a well-run farm. What about his
marriage?"

"He wed Miss Mary Harlow, daughter of the
Wheatton vicar, in 1801. Their son, Frederick, was born less than a
year, but more than nine months, later."

"Catherine?"

Glenaire's sardonic look at Will's use of her
given name spoke volumes, but the marquess didn't comment on it.
"About Miss Wheatly, if that is her name, I could find little. Her
mother departed Wheatton abruptly late in 1788, and came to live
with an aunt in a remote village in Scotland, with an infant, soon
after. Of marriage or a father, we found no trace. I have people
looking into it, but, if there is no paper, they are reduced to
listening at keyholes."

"Call them off."

The eyebrows rose.

"We can assume the obvious. No point in
causing Catherine embarrassment or upsetting Lord Arthur any
further. The man is fiercely protective of her." Will watched the
deep purple liquid swirl around in his glass. "It might help to
know, however," he murmured.

"To what purpose?" Glenaire asked, knowing
eyes boring into him.

Before I take her to wed. He couldn't say the
words out loud. Not until he was certain enough of his own feelings
to put them to the test. "Something isn't right," he said instead.
"Nothing you've said accounts for the animosity. Emery put the fear
of God into Sylvia. She seems to believe Catherine—Miss Wheatly—was
Emery's mistress."

"Perhaps she was."

"No!"

Glenaire waited with exquisite patience.

"I would bet Chadbourn Park on it. If Emery
took Catherine, it wasn't voluntarily. It might account for his
determination to keep Charles and Sylvia away, though I just can't
see it. What of Songbird Cottage?"

Glenaire leaned forward and put both elbows
on the table, cupping his glass. "Songbird Cottage and its acres
belong outright to Lord Arthur, left to him by his mother from her
settlements. Neither the seventh nor eighth duke had any claim to
it."

Will nodded. "Catherine said as much. She
said his father resented it."

"Some men would dislike loss of control."

"Isn't that the point of settlements,
protecting something for the woman and her children?"

"True, but some begrudge it. Perhaps, the old
duke expected it to come directly to him upon marriage. Perhaps
Emery felt the same. Is it a nice piece of land?"

"Not large, but tidy and productive. The
best."

"There you have it."

"Maybe. There has to be more, and I'm going
to find it, for those boys' sake if nothing else. They are a duke's
grandsons. The estate owes them better. A gentleman's education, at
least."

Long minutes passed. Glenaire watched Will.
Will stared at his port until he finally sat back and let a grim
smile show. "I think it's time Lord Arthur visits his childhood
home."

"From what you have said, he won't come."

"Catherine will persuade him, if only for her
brothers' wellbeing. I have her support for that, at least. She
hasn't said it, but I know it's there. She'll persuade him."

He counted on it.

Chapter Seven

"Brilliant!" Randy shouted.

He ran up the hill to greet his new friend.
Charles walked down the lane herding three sheep, his uncle close
behind. The boys had managed to contrive reasons to visit every
other day, and now, the young duke had been dragooned into the
animal nativity.

"I herded them myself," Charles crowed. "I
told Uncle Will we needed sheep, and he said they were mine to
give, but I wasn't to ask Mr. Archer to bring them. I had to figure
out how to get them here."

"Dead perfect, Charles!" Freddy exclaimed.
"These will fill out the nativity nicely. How did you learn to
herd?"

Catherine looked at the earl's amused brown
eyes. "Your Grace" seemed to have fled sometime in the last
week.

"I found a book in the library, A Guide for
Young Shepherds. It described how to herd them, and a whole lot
more besides. Book was exactly right: it's easy. Will these do,
then?"

Randy hugged one sheep around the neck and
scratched the ears of another. "Are they ours to keep?"

"Certainly," Charles said regally. "I'm
giving them to you."

"Can we, Cath? We don't have to give them
back after Christmas, do we?"

She looked at Chadbourn for enlightenment,
but his amused expression made it clear she was on her own.

"Do you think we have enough feed for
winter?" she asked even though she knew the answer perfectly
well.

Randy gave it some thought. "Yes, we do. We
stocked more than we needed, in case. I guess it was in case we got
three sheep! We'll need that book, though."

"Who will be the shepherd?" Freddy asked.
"For the nativity, that is. Do you think we could borrow Lady
Guinevere?"

"You could, but she's too big," Charles said.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you. I fed her a carrot yesterday without
help." He grinned at the boys. "She's to be my mount, as soon as we
become friends," he confided.

"Excellent, Charles. I told you it wasn't
hard," Randy said. The duke beamed proudly.

The three, and their woolly friends, wandered
off to the barn, arguing about what animal might stand for a
shepherd. Randy argued correctly that Bertha, who was a sheepdog,
would be the logical choice. "But she's going to be Mother Mary. If
we make her a shepherd, where will we be?" Freddy insisted,
lobbying for the loan of a horse.