Duke and His Duchess (11 page)

***

What did a man say to the wife who’d come upon him riding along the alley with an unexplained by-blow up before him?

While Percival pondered that mystery, one of the children gave a shriek as a cat skittered around a corner of the stables, and small feet pelted off in a herd.

Percival stared at his wife, who stared back at him in visible consternation. He did not know what to say to her, did not know why she’d been in the company of that small dark-haired…

Images of the same child, warily clutching another woman’s skirts, barreled into Percival’s mind. He felt the impact physically, a spinning sensation that whirled through his body and changed everything in the blink of an eye.

Changed everything
again
.

There were two of them. Two small children who’d not known their father’s love or protection. His knees threatened to buckle, and still he did not know what to say.

“Percival?”

Esther spoke his name in dread, which he could not abide. He held out a hand to her. “Esther, please listen. Please, please listen.”

She aimed a puzzled frown at his outstretched hand, as if she did not comprehend what she beheld.

“Esther, you must listen to me.” Or he’d shoot Cecily Donnelly before witnesses then shoot himself. “I did not want for you to be hurt. You must believe that.”

Bart’s voice pierced the cold around them. “We’ve got her! Blast, you let her go!” The coach horses shifted in their harnesses and still, Esther merely regarded him.

“I think it possible I am not hurt after all. Who is the little red-haired girl, Percival?”

“My daughter and Cecily O’Donnell’s—may God have mercy upon me. I became aware of the child—I met her—only a few days past. Her name is Maggie, and she’s very bright.”

Perhaps he shouldn’t have added that last. Percival let his hand fall to his side, and yet still, he held out hope that Esther might eventually forgive him. He knew from her expression that she was
thinking
, and that had to be encouraging.

She worried her lower lip while Percival uttered prayers more fervent than any he’d offered up in the Canadian wilderness.

“You know Devlin is your son?”

“I do now. His mother said nothing to me.”

“She said a great deal to me, most of which I had to agree with.”

From the barn, a girl’s voice called out, “She’s coming around the saddle room! Run, you lot!”

“Esther, may we continue this discussion where we have a measure of privacy?”

“Yes.” She strode across the alley and took his arm. “We had best. Come sit with me in the garden.”

His first thought was that a garden in winter was a depressing place, all dead flowers and bare trees. When Esther had him situated on a cold, hard bench, it occurred to Percival that here, while his marriage died a painful, civilized death, helpful servants would not intrude to ask if he wanted a bloody tray of perishing tea.

Esther took his hand. “Tell me about Mrs. O’Donnell, Percival, but be warned, I am not prepared to be reasonable where she is concerned.”

Where to start? “First, you must know I loathe the woman. Second, you should also know I went to the theater with her last night.”

Esther slipped her fingers free of his. Percival grabbed her hand right back and held it shamelessly tight.

“Husband, I do not understand you. You sport about before all of Polite Society with a woman you loathe, while the wife you profess to love is sent out into the countryside. You are generally very direct, Percival. You will have to explain this apparent contradiction to me.”

In her exaggerated civility, Percival realized that Esther was nowhere near as composed as she wanted him to think—a fortifying thought.

“Mrs. O’Donnell threatened the girl, threatened to make a bad situation worse. If I lent the woman my escort, she would spare the child and allow matters to go forth as if we maintained a cordial liaison. If I refused her my attentions, she’d stir the scandal broth at every turn and ensure the child—my own daughter—had no chance at a decent life. I needed time to make provisions for Maggie and placated that woman accordingly.”

Esther was silent for long moments, but she at least let Percival keep possession of her hand. “Vile woman. You must teach me some curses so I might better express my sentiments toward her when I am private with you.”

His wife contemplated being private with him. The reprieve of that revelation was vast. Even so, Percival did not relax his grip on her hand. “I’ll teach you every curse I know. Tell me about the boy.”

This question seemed to relieve Percival’s wife. She smoothed her skirts with her free hand, relaxing in a way that communicated itself mostly where they held hands. “He has your love of horses, very pretty manners, and he does not know he won’t see his mother for some time. I thought you would be wroth with me for not consulting you, but I can see you had your hands full with other matters.”

Percival brought her knuckles to his lips, and again did not know what to say. When he’d been busy skirmishing with the enemy and taking a prisoner, his staunchest guard had been protecting his flank.

Never had a man been so grateful to misperceive a situation.

The gate scraped open behind them, and the senior groom shuffled a few steps into the garden, hat in hand.

“Beggin’ milord’s pardon, but is we to unhitch the traveling coach?”

***

Esther regarded her husband, waiting on his reply. Percival might well send her packing, might well sweep the children away from Society’s notice until the gossip died down—which would happen only after several eternities.

“Unhitch the team,” Percival said. “We won’t be needing the traveling coach for some time. Is the cat still in one piece?”

The groom’s lips twitched. “Grimalkin be in the straw mow, that racket be the children all burrowing after. The mice is laughing fit to kill.” He left them alone, closing the gate behind him.

There were four children in that straw mow, and two more in the nursery, and they were
all
her husband’s progeny. The notion was dizzying, so dizzying, Esther was grateful to hold her husband’s hand.

“Esther, there is more we should discuss.”

She peered over at him, because he’d spoken carefully, with a studied calm that presaged bad news. “Six children is rather a lot, Percival. Are there more?”

She hadn’t been joking, but he smiled at her, a smile of such tenderness that Esther’s insides stopped hopping about like a collection of March hares, for no man smiling like that could be hiding any further secrets.

“I have only six children that I know of, unless you’re carrying. I was hoping to find decent quarters for Maggie before her mother comes, making a great drama on our doorstep, for I seized Maggie from her mother’s house and didn’t exactly ask permission first.”

He sounded hesitant, not quite sure of his strategy, when it had been the only reasonable course. “You kidnapped her.” Esther patted his knuckles with her free hand. “Of course you did, because the child was her mother’s greatest source of leverage. I do not see that you had a prudent alternative, it being beyond bad form for a mother to use a child like that.”

He studied their joined hands, his expression so serious as to emphasize a resemblance to his father. “I don’t see what prudence has to do with our situation, my lady. Had I been prudent, none of this would have occurred.”

He leaned back against the garden wall and stretched out his long legs before him. Though Percival didn’t turn loose of her hand, in some way his posture suggested he was abandoning his wife so he could wallow in his guilt and misgivings.

They had no time for male histrionics if Mrs. O’Donnell was maneuvering her cannon into place, and there was no point to Percival’s dramatics, either. “Listen, Percival Windham, and tell me what you hear.”

He closed his eyes. “I hear altogether too many small children making a lot of rumpus over one sorry feline.”

“Those children are laughing. They are playing together without a single toy between them, and they are having great good fun. They met each other a few minutes ago, and already they know how to go on as a family. We must take our example from them and make a certain cat sorry she ever thought to go hunting on our turf.”

***

“Nobody prosecutes warrants for prostitution.”

Cecily’s attempt at disdain was undermined by the quaver in her voice as she stared at the document Percival had tossed onto the table before her. If the woman had any sense, she’d be more terrified than angry, but then, she’d
never
demonstrated appreciable common sense.

“Madam, I vow to you that I will see this warrant prosecuted, and have affidavits from a dozen witnesses of good birth to ensure the charges result in a conviction. I will also bring suit for slander if you suggest to a soul that a single, casual evening in a public theater box was indicative of any renewed association between us.”

Cecily flicked the document aside. “You kidnapped my daughter. I am the child’s legal custodian, and you’ve taken her unlawfully from my loving care. Perhaps you aren’t even her father.”

“In your loving care, she hasn’t a single proper toy. She hasn’t been inoculated for smallpox, her feet are covered with blisters because she outgrew her only boots ages ago. And I am very certain she is my daughter, thanks to the documents you so kindly provided me.”

Something smug in his tone must have given him away, because Cecily rose from her artful pose on the green sofa and stalked over to her escritoire. She rifled the drawers and came up glowering.

Which purely delighted Percival. On his last raid into enemy territory, he’d made one stop before he and Maggie had left the premises, and that detail, that one small detail, justified years spent shivering on reconnaissance in the Canadian wilderness.

“You’ve stolen the documents, my lord. Shall I have you arrested for that?”

Percival settled his elbow a little more comfortably on her mantel and noted one of the green bows on Cecily’s towering wig was coming undone. “By all means. You’ll want your witnesses to lay information, provided you can find any who will malign a duke’s son with their perjury. You procured the documents for me at my specific request, as the signatories on the documents would attest.”

As they would attest
now
, now that Percival had met with each one and held pointed discussions with them.

Cecily slammed the last drawer closed hard enough to make the inkwell on the blotter jump. “You lying, conniving, sly—”

“Such flattery will surely turn my head, Mrs. O’Donnell.” He pushed away from the mantel, because if she came flying at him, he’d want to be able to step aside without letting her touch him. “You have an alternative, you know. My wife was insistent that you’d see reason eventually.”

“Your
wife
isn’t fit to—”

Before she could complete her insult, Percival harpooned her with a look that let her see every particle of savagery in him. To protect his wife and children, to protect even his lady’s good name, he would cheerfully murder this woman on the spot. Esther had been very clear he was not to indulge in such an impulse, though Esther was also demonstrating a marvelous ability to deal with the occasional marital disappointment.

Cecily took a seat at her escritoire. “What is this alternative?”

Percival tossed documents before her, like he’d throw slops before a hog. “Sign those papers giving me authority over the child, and that bank draft is yours to do with whatever you please.”

No sow had ever regarded her dinner with such a gleam of avarice in her eye. Cecily traced her fingers over the figures on the draft. “All I have to do is sign the papers?”

“Immediately.”

She didn’t like that. From the scowl on her face, Percival surmised she’d planned on absconding with the money, and at some future date, perhaps absconding with the child.

“Fine then. Take the brat, and I wish you the joy of her.” She reached for the inkwell, and Percival went to the door.

“What are you—?”

“Witnesses, Mrs. O’Donnell. A proper legal document, to be binding, requires proper witnesses, doesn’t it?”

She made no effort to hide her rage as John, Duke of Quimbey, strode into the room, very much on his dignity. Anthony came after that, followed by a marquis and an earl whom Percival had known since his years at Eton.

Quimbey took the time to make sure Cecily was signing freely and voluntarily and that she understood what she was signing—a nice touch that, but then Quimbey had acquired his title before he’d gone to university, and was a genuinely good friend.

The deed was quickly fait accompli, and with thanks all around in the mews, Percival mounted his charger and prepared to report to his commanding officer that the enemy had been thoroughly, absolutely, and permanently routed.

***

“Maggie will help me civilize them,” Esther said as they closed the nursery door. “She’s had to think for herself from a young age, and lot of cosseted boys will not slow her down one bit.”

Beside her, Percival studied the closed door. “You consider Devlin to have been cosseted?” He hoped it was so. Distracted by his siblings, Devlin seemed to be fitting in easily, but Percival saw worry in the boy’s eyes.

Time to go shopping for some ponies.

Esther slipped her arm through his and walked with him toward the stairs, probably to prevent him from suggesting they read the children just one more story.

“You must not fret, Husband. In some ways, Devlin has been cosseted the most. His mother could not provide lavishly for him, but he had her love all to himself, no siblings to compete with, no father to distract Mama from her darling son. He’ll be fine, Percival. We’ll all be fine.”

Because Esther believed that, Percival could believe it too. Kathleen St. Just had taken ship for Ireland, where a second cousin was willing to marry her. Cecily O’Donnell was reported to be taking a repairing lease at Bath. In some ways, the Yule season that approached would be the happiest of their marriage so far.

Esther leaned a little closer. “What did Tony have to say?”