Duke and His Duchess (6 page)

Mama sounded fiercely glad about this. Maggie had no idea why. From what little she knew, being a duke was also silly.

“Who is that lady?”

“That pale Viking creature is your papa’s wife, and may he have the joy of her.” Mama fairly snarled this information. Maggie would have bruises from the way Mama gripped her shoulders now.

“And the other lady?”

“Lord Tony’s wife, your papa’s sister-by-marriage. Why Lord Tony married a horse-faced Valkyrie when he could have had his pick of the heiresses escapes me. Windham men are headstrong. Remember that.”

Remember it for when? Unease shivered down Maggie’s limbs along with the cold. “I need the necessary.”

Mama shook her. “No, you do not. I told you to go before we got in the coach.”

Which had been ages ago, since Mama had taken to lurking in the park and rolling around Mayfair by the hour, hoping to catch another glimpse of Maggie’s papa.

And yet, Maggie wanted desperately to get away from those laughing, rock-throwing boys and the pretty blond lady smiling at her red-haired friend. Their very joy and ease made Maggie anxious.

“I really do have to go, Mama. I’m sorry.”

Of course, Mama slapped her. A slap against a cold cheek had a particular pain to it, a sting and a burn made worse for the frigid air. Maggie would remember
that
, and she would not cry—crying was for babies.

“You vile little rat,” Mama hissed. “Everything I do, every single thing, is for your benefit, and yet you must whine and carry on and foil all my plans. I should have left you as a foundling on the steps of the lowest church in the meanest slum—”

Maggie cringed away, expecting the inevitable backhanded blow, but down by the water, the boys were no longer throwing rocks. They were staring at her and at Mama. They weren’t laughing anymore.

“They’re watching you, Mama.”

All of them, the boys, the two ladies, a nursemaid who had a tiny girl by the hand, a footman near the boys, and a second nursemaid. All of them had gone still, watching Mama raise her hand to strike Maggie again.

That hand lowered slowly and straightened the collar of Maggie’s cape. “Let them watch. The performance is just beginning. Come along.”

Maggie had to run to keep up with Mama on the way back to the coach, run or be dragged. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the boys were still watching, and so was the tall blond lady.

Papa’s wife was pretty, and she looked worried—for Maggie. The lady kept watching until Mama bundled Maggie into the coach, and even as the coach pulled away, Maggie peered out the window and saw her watching still.

When
I
grow
up, I want to be a Viking creature too.

***

Esther regarded her husband over a glass of hearty red wine—she preferred white, but somebody had mixed up the menus, so a roast of beef had been served instead of fowl.

“Have another bite, my dear.” She obligingly nibbled from the fork he proffered. “Did you enjoy the outing to the park today?”

“I did, and I think the boys did too, very much.” She had enjoyed most of it, despite the chill. She was also enjoying her husband’s attentions, which had been marked throughout the meal. “Is there a reason we’re dining in our chambers, Percival?”

“Tony and Gladys sought some privacy.”

This had the ring of an improvised untruth. Tony and Gladys found privacy throughout the day, and sometimes didn’t bother to find privacy when they ought. Esther munched another bite of perfectly prepared beef and cast around for a way to brace her husband on the day’s events.

“And what did you find to do with yourself today, Percival?”

He studied the next bite of beef skewered on the silver fork. “This and that. Have you given any more thought to consulting a physician?”

“I have not.” Nor would she, not when all that ailed her was a crushing fatigue and a passing touch of maternal melancholia. “You’re neglecting your meal, sir.”

He studied braised carrots swimming in beef juices. “Peter has not left his chambers since we departed for Town. He doesn’t come down for meals.”

Esther’s ire at Percival’s mention of a physician faded. She spoke as gently as she could. “Hectoring me to see a doctor will not restore your brother’s good health, Husband.”

He sat back, his expression unreadable. “Will you come riding with me tomorrow? Take a short turn in the park at midday?”

He was up to something, though Esther had no idea what. Percival worried about Peter, about the duke, about the infantry in the colonies, and about the king’s health.

And her husband worried about her.

“Of course, I’ll ride with you, weather permitting.” She’d be in the saddle by midday if she had to be carried to the mews. “Have you given any more thought to a seat in the Commons?”

That was stab in the dark, because no matter how she studied him and reviewed the day’s events, Esther could not fathom what burr had gotten under Percival’s saddle. Peter had taken to his bed before, and Arabella jollied him out of it eventually.

They finished the meal in silence, and when the dishes had been removed, Percival confirmed Esther’s suspicion that he was pursuing some objective known only to him—for now.

“I’m for bed, Wife. You will join me?”

She’d like nothing better, unless it was to have an honest answer from him regarding his present preoccupation. Not until they were in bed, side by side and not touching, did it occur to Esther that her husband might be feeling guilty.

Last night might have resulted in conception—it probably had, in fact. They were that fertile—that blessed—as a couple.

“Percival?”

“My dear?”

“Do you regret last night?” She could ask that in the dark. She could not ask him what was wrong and what she could do to help him with it. Beneath the covers, she felt his fingers close around her hand.

“I could never regret making love to my wife.”

Another prevarication, though not exactly an untruth. Esther rolled against his side, hiked a leg over his thighs, and felt his arms encircle her. She remained silent, and that was a form of prevarication too.

What Esther wanted to say, the words that were burning to fill the darkness of that bedroom, had to do with a single, sharp moment etched into her memory from their visit to the park.

Cecily O’Donnell had emerged from her coach when the boys had vanquished a patch of ice along the Serpentine bank. She had towed a small child with her. A girl sporting hair as red as Mrs. O’Donnell’s was revealed to be beneath her striking green caleche.

Esther had been helpless not to watch as the solemn child had regarded Bart and Gayle hurling their rocks, laughing, and carrying on like boys who’d been cooped up too long.

The girl was stoic, not succumbing to tears even when slapped stoutly by her mother—for she had to be Mrs. O’Donnell’s child. She had her mother’s generous mouth, had her mother’s red hair. If Esther had to guess the girl’s age, she’d place her a year older than Bartholomew at least, based on height and also on a certain gravity of bearing. She was pretty now and destined for greater beauty in a few years.

A year before Bart had been conceived, Percival would have been in Canada. The realization was no little comfort.

***

“I cannot fathom why any man of sense would argue for the purchase of more ammunition without also advocating for more uniforms. Muskets won’t fire if the fellows holding them are perishing from cold. Men can’t march if the jungle has rotted their boots.”

Tony rarely became agitated, though his fussing was welcome.

Percival steered Comet around a pile of pungent horse droppings steaming in the middle of the path. “Their argument is, we should outfit our fellows in something other than scarlet regimentals. Our boys might as well have targets painted on their backs.”

“But in the smoke and noise of battle, when the cannon have been belching shot in every direction, those scarlet uniforms are all that keep a man from being killed by his own troops.”

This was also true, and morale was somehow bound up in the traditional uniforms too.

“There are no good solutions to some problems,” Percival replied, “and in any case, cannonballs are easier to requisition than new uniforms. If I asked you to head back to Morelands, would you go?”

Tony’s horse was not as fastidious as Comet. At the next evidence of another horse’s recent passing, the gelding plodded right through, landing his off hind foot in the middle of the rank pile.

“You are going to be head of the family soon, Perce. I don’t think you’re facing this as squarely as you ought. If you want to dispatch me to Morelands, to Morelands I will go. Gladys understands.”

Esther understood too, about some things. “Peter is bedridden again. Because Arabella is preoccupied with her spouse, His Grace is no longer coming down for meals either.”

Tony’s lips pursed. Around them, few others had braved the park’s chill this early. Sunlight bounced off the Serpentine in brittle shards, and Percival wondered if he ought to cancel his outing later in the day with Esther.

“His Grace isn’t one for pouting,” Tony observed. “What does old Thomas say?”

“Old Thomas is posting me regular reports. Says His Grace is off his feed, too.”

Which was alarming. The duke Percival recalled from boyhood had been a hale, articulate, supremely self-possessed man, the equal of any occasion. The elderly, confused fellow at Morelands bore only the saddest resemblance to Percival’s sire.

“I’ll go, Perce. Gladys will want a day or so to shop and organize, but I’ll go.”

“My thanks.”

They both fell silent as they came around a bend in the path. A woman sat perched on an elegant bay mare several yards ahead, the lady’s unpowdered hair nearly matching the horse’s gleaming coat.

And not a groom to be seen.

Percival’s every instinct told him this was an ambush. Seeing Kathleen St. Just had brought the past to mind, and for Percival, that past included Cecily O’Donnell. Their paths had not yet crossed this trip, and Percival had been hoping to avoid the woman altogether.

While Percival liked Kathleen, respected her and wished her well, his association with Cecily O’Donnell was a small collection of expensive, rancid memories and uncomfortable regrets.

“Your lordships, good morning!”

The O’Donnell had always been abominably forward. Percival nodded coolly and urged Comet along the path.

She turned her horse to more completely block the way, which was bloody stupid when she was on a mare and Percival was on a frisky young stallion. “Oh come now, Percy! Can’t you greet an old friend? And, Tony, you never used to be unfriendly.”

Percival had the odd thought that even Cecily O’Donnell would not have approached him had he been with his lady wife. Would to God that he were.

“Madam, good day.” He did not so much as touch his hat brim.

“Tony, you’ll run along now. Dear Percy and I have things to discuss in private.”

She’d drenched herself in some musky, sweet scent redolent of patchouli, and she used singsong tones another, much younger and sillier man might have taken for flirtation.

Tony, bless him, stayed right where he was and uttered not a word of greeting.

Percival let Comet toss his head restively. “I have nothing to discuss with you, madam. Unless you want to provoke my stallion to an unseemly display, you’ll move aside.”

Though in truth, it was the mare who might deliver a stout kick to the stallion if she were crowded.

“You are in error, dear man, and I am partly responsible. My apologies.” The devil himself could not have offered less sincere regrets to St. Peter.

Percival shot a look at his brother. Tony would ride around and haul the woman’s horse off the path by the bridle at the first indication from Percival, but then, the damned female would only pop out from behind another bush at some more public moment.

“Anthony, if you would oblige the… woman.” For she wasn’t a lady.

Without acknowledging Mrs. O’Donnell in any way, Tony steered his gelding back a few yards on the path. A little privacy, no more, which was exactly what Percival intended.

“What can you possibly have to discuss with me, ma’am? When you threw me over for some admiral five years ago, I withdrew from the field without protest. I am happily married”—he
delighted
in telling her that—“and your circumstances now are of no interest to me whatsoever.”

And yet… the morning sun was not kind to a woman who’d been plying a strumpet’s trade practically since girlhood. Kathleen St. Just had looked tired, sad, and worried, while Cecily O’Donnell appeared as brittle and cold as the ice on the nearby water. Her hair, once her crowning glory, looked as if it had been dulled by regular applications of henna, and her skin, once toasted as flawless, looked sallow.

Pity was a damned nuisance when coupled with a man’s regrets.

Percival waited until Cecily had turned her horse then allowed Comet to walk forward. “What do you want?”

“I’m a reasonable woman, Percy. What I want is reasonable too.”

Part of what she wanted was dramatics. This aspect of her personality was one reason ending their casual association had been such a relief.

“You’d best spit it out. Both my father and brother are ailing. I may well be leaving for Morelands this afternoon.”
Forgive
me, Papa and Peter.

“I know.”

She let the echo of that broadside fade. She’d been spying on him, or at least keeping up with gossip. Neither was encouraging.

“Anybody who’s been to the theater would know. Get to the point.”

“I’ve missed you, Percy.”

Oh, for the love of God. “I cannot find that notion flattering—or sincere. If that’s all you had to say, I’ll just be going.” Comet, ever a sensitive lad, began to pull on the reins. Percival smoothed a hand down the stallion’s crest.

“Damn you,” she hissed. “I might have been amicable, but you’re determined on your arrogance. You are the Moreland spare, and if you don’t want scandal the like of which will disgrace your family and destroy your welcome in polite circles, you’ll attend me at my home tomorrow promptly at ten of the clock.”