Malia Martin (11 page)

But he had never been able to do anything for anyone, including himself. He had tried to do well in school, tried to make friends and fit in . . . tried to protect his mother. But always it ended with his father screaming at him for failing, his peers calling him names and shunning him, and his mother stopping his hand when he would fight for her.

Ah, yes, his father would have enjoyed being
the Duke of Rawlston. A humorless laugh came from his lips, as Trevor shook his head hard, water droplets flying about the room, as if trying to dislodge the memory of his self-righteous, abusive father.

If there was ever anything more deserving of being completely forgotten, it was the memory of Rutherford Phillips.

But then, Trevor thought of Trudy. He had done something for Trudy using his name, his power. He had saved her, as he had never been able to save his mother, hadn’t he? The heaviness that had dropped upon his shoulders like a wet cloak lightened slightly. Trevor straightened away from the back of the tub, his mind grappling with this new idea, but his heart still completely afraid of dealing with it.

There was a knock at the door. Trevor wished he could disappear, just turn into smoke, waft across the Channel, and materialize in Marie’s boudoir on the Rue du Jardin in the middle of Paris. Instead he sat very much himself in a tub of lukewarm water staring at the lovely rounded breasts of a painted nymph and wondering who was interrupting him, again.

“Yes?”

“Your grace,” Grady called. “You have callers awaiting you in the drawing room. I have your clothes ready.”

“Of course you do.” Trevor hefted himself from his bath and dried off. Callers, curses, correspondence
. . . bloody hell, it was like something out of his worst nightmare.

With his cravat tied way too tight and his hessians so shiny he could clean his dratted teeth by them, Trevor descended the main stairwell and followed one of the maids to the drawing room. She opened the door for him, head bowed deferentially. No wonder the King had turned into a raving lunatic! To have so many people never looking you straight in the eye was terribly disconcerting.

Trevor entered the drawing room and squinted, the drapes having been pulled back. Sun shone through the glass and glanced off the bright fabrics in the room, leaving two women sitting in the glare of a rather aggressive sunbeam. They stood when he entered, moving forward slightly. Trevor’s gaze was immediately drawn to the younger girl. With the sun now behind her, she looked like an angel.

A delicate, lovely creature only lent to the earth, and surely not allowed to stay very long. Trevor blinked, taking in her white blonde hair, luminous blue eyes, and thin, pale skin. She dipped an incredibly low curtsey.

The woman beside her did also, but Trevor barely noticed. “Your grace,” the woman said, and Trevor dragged his gaze away from the angel and looked into blue eyes reminiscent of the girl’s but harder, with the taint of years and bitterness to them. “I am Rachel Biddle, your
grace.” She said this as if he should know her.

“Yes?”

“And this is my daughter, Helen.” She gestured with a thin manicured hand to the girl. Trevor welcomed the chance to look at the angel once more.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Biddle.” Trevor dipped his head toward Helen. “And you, Miss Biddle.”

“Well, and aren’t we glad to finally meet you!” said Mrs. Biddle. She laughed, her lashes flapping like flags in a stiff breeze. “When we heard you were at the Hall, we came over as soon as we could.”

“Aren’t I the lucky one?” Trevor mumbled under his breath before turning to Mary, who still stood at the door. “Could you bring tea, Mary?”

“Of course, your grace!” The girl bowed her way out of the room.

Trevor turned back to the rather tall Biddle women. “Please/sit down.”

They sat, immediately getting lost in the glare of sun streaking through the window. Trevor squinted, then went to pull the drapes.

“Thank you, your grace,” Mrs. Biddle had wide lips that showed a missing back tooth when she smiled. But she was a handsome woman, had probably been quite a beauty in her youth. Trevor went to sit across from the woman and her daughter.

“I must tell you, your grace, Rawlston, as you
will soon realize, is a terribly small and provincial town.” Mrs. Biddle shook her head with obvious exasperation. “Hardly anyone of consequence within a day’s ride.”

“How long did it take for you to get here?” he asked.

“Oh!” Mrs. Biddle laughed giddily. “Well, um . . . actually, we live only over the back hill.”

“We are tenants, your grace,” Helen finally spoke. Trevor stared at the girl in the silence that followed her comment. She had a very serious voice for one so young. A beautiful voice, low and rich. She sat with a stillness that made one pause.

“Well, not really tenants . . . that is to say,” Mrs. Biddle interrupted the quiet with a frantic tone to her voice, “well, actually, I inherited the house we live in when Dearest . . . I mean, the last Duke died.”

Trevor pulled his gaze away from the girl and focused on the mother. He could have sworn the woman almost referred to the last Duke as “Dearest.”

“My mother’s mother was a Trotter!” Mrs. Biddle’s voice rose an octave. She took a breath before continuing, “Are you acquainted with the Trotters, your grace? They are a branch of Baron Levenger’s family.”

Trevor rubbed discreetly at his temple. “I can’t say that I am, Mrs. Biddle.”

“Well, Baron Levenger is the third cousin once removed of my . . .”

Mary bustled in just then with the tea, and Trevor wanted to kiss her. He smiled at the maid, and she promptly bumped the tray against the table. Brown liquid sloshed from under the silver top of the serving pitcher.

“I’m so sorry, your grace. I don’ know what . . . oh, dear, I . . .”

“Not to worry, Mary,” Trevor said calmly. He pushed the tray closer to the center of the table. He grinned at her and winked. “No harm done.”

She stared at him as if frozen.

“Would you do the honor of pouring, Mrs. Biddle?” Trevor asked.

“Oh, yes, of course!” She rose and took a chair closer to the table.

Mary snapped out of her little reverie and blushed. “Ring if you need anything, your grace,” she said, quickly taking her leave.

“My father is a very wealthy man, your grace. Perhaps you know of him?” Mrs. Biddle asked, as she served tea.

“I have been abroad, Mrs. Biddle. I am not acquainted with many people.”

“Oh, yes, I have heard that you have been living in Paris.” Mrs. Biddle prattled on, but Trevor quit listening as the woman spoke of that terrible Napoleon and how glad she was that he was gone. Helen sat stiffly, hands in her lap and the look of some wise old woman about
her eyes. Trevor frowned and drank his tea. The girl was beautiful, but she made him think that he had a button missing or that she could see right into the inner workings of his mind.

The whole experience was just damn nerve wracking. A month ago, if he had been able to look into his future and been allowed a peek at just this one scene, he would have sworn it was some sort of drug-induced nightmare. Only he had never used opium.

Rachel Biddle. Trevor drained his teacup and placed it back on its saucer. The saucer, he noticed, had a small chip off one side. Did he know this woman?

“Are you going to stay at Rawlston for a while, your grace?”

Fortunately, Trevor heard Mrs. Biddle’s question. “Until things are settled.”

“Oh!” The woman clapped her hands. “So you will settle everything here? You will not go to London?”

Trevor became wary. For some reason he felt they had different definitions of the word “settle.” “Well . . .” Suddenly he realized who this woman was. Who knew why the memory found that time to pop up in his mind, but he pointed at her. “You’re the mistress!”

Poor Mrs. Biddle looked as if the roof had just crashed down upon her head. And Trevor truly wished that it would. At least the woman hadn’t had a mouthful of tea. She would have spit it across the room, surely.

Trevor bit down for a painful moment on his tongue, then cleared his throat.

“I mean . . .
are
you the mistress of your own home?” What on earth did that mean? “Are you married?” he tried again.

“No, your grace,” Mrs. Biddle answered.

Trevor glanced at Helen. A Mona Lisa smile played about her lips. Where the hell was Sara? He groped desperately for a subject.

“Shall we go, Mother?” Helen asked in her hypnotic voice. “’Tis getting rather late.”

“But . . .”

“Mother.” Helen stood. “Your grace.” The girl made a graceful curtsey. “We are honored that you allowed us this memorable time with you.”

Trevor had gotten to his feet with Mrs. Biddle. “It was my pleasure.”

Helen’s brows arched delicately, and twin dimples lightly dented her pale cheeks. The girl was absolutely without equal in looks.

Mrs. Biddle curtsied, and Trevor saw them to the door. The mother said nothing more, and Trevor felt like a cad until he recalled that the woman had been the one to cause Sara’s confinement at Newgate. Too bad he remembered that only after the door had closed behind her. Trevor sighed as he headed for the kitchen. He needed to cook. He needed to lose himself in the luscious smells of herbs roasting in butter. He hoped Mary had acquired the things he had asked for that morning. She had not recognized
half the ingredients for the Italian dish the luscious Señora Degalzo had taught him to make. Trevor inhaled deeply as he pushed through the kitchen door. The maid had found fresh onions and basil, at least.

T
he small house smelled of sweat, blood, and life. Sara stopped just inside the door and took a deep breath, holding it against the sudden tide of memories.

“She’s in the bedroom, your grace.”

Sara turned to her best friend’s husband and smiled hugely. “Thank you, Tim.”

The man dipped his head, and Sara strode quickly through the small front room and through a door to an adjoining room. Melina was sitting up in bed, a bundle of blankets in her lap, and four children kneeling around her.

The chidren cooed and stared at the writhing baby Melina held before her. Sara stopped again, her chest tight. She hated self-pity, but it slapped her in the face now. Oh, how she coveted Melina’s life at that moment. A loving husband and five healthy children.

Her friend looked up then, and their eyes met over the tousled hair of the young girls. Sara
shook her head as if that would rid her of any remnants of her thoughts, and smiled. “This one did not give much notice, did she?”

Melina laughed as all the children but one moved back off the bed.

“I ran for Mrs. Desmond, ran so hard I almost threw up!” Hannah laughed. “But Mama had the baby before I could bring the midwife back.”

“Mrs. Desmond stopped by the Dower House on her way home and let us know that Rose had arrived without her.” Sara put her hands against her hips and mocked a frown. “I had to let the children leave early. And I must say, I did wonder this morning when none of the O’Haras showed up for lessons.”

Melina shrugged. “I knew something was going to happen when I woke, so I kept the little ones home. I must say, they just keep coming faster and faster. I swear I can’t have another, Sara, or it’ll just drop out when I’m walking down the road.”

The children laughed hysterically over this, except for Rhea. “Oh, mother, that is awful,” she said with a frown.

Melina rolled her eyes without her second oldest seeing.

“But, of course, you must have another, Melina.” Sara scooted closer. “Because you have yet to have a boy. Poor Tim. I know he was hoping you would give him a good strong boy this time to help him in the fields.”

“I’m as big and strong as any boy around here!” Little Piper thrust out her skinny chest. “I’m Papa’s best helper.”

“That you are!” Tim had followed Sara into the crowded room. “Now out with you all, so the Duchess can admire our baby Rose in peace.”

The smallest, Lisa, still knelt next to her sister on the bed. She curled over and pecked the baby on her red forehead, then sat up and gazed at Sara with a terribly serious look on her chubby face. “We nameded hu Wose, ’cuz she’s the same colo’ as ow woses by the gate.”

Sara held her hand over her mouth for a moment. “Hmm, those are very bright flowers.”

“Wose is a vewy bwight baby!”

“Come on now,” Tim said, clapping his hands, to which there was a mass exodus.

Sara sat gently next to Melina and stared at the wrinkled red baby in her lap. “She’s beautiful.”

“Looks like all the others.” Melina laughed.

“And they all look like you.” Sara looked into Melina’s gray eyes. “So they are all beautiful.”

Melina smiled, it was like staring straight into the sun. The mother tucked the blanket more securely around Rose and lifted her. “Here,” she said softly, holding the child toward Sara.

“Oh, yes.” Sara opened her arms, pulling the warm being against her breast Little Rose curled there, her soft head against the hollow of Sara’s throat. Closing her eyes, Sara inhaled.
Tears burned her throat, but she bit her lip.

“I had forgotten how small they are,” she said on a sigh.

“Aye,” agreed Melina. “And they grow so fast.”

The baby squirmed a bit, her mouth opening against Sara’s chest. Sara bounced and held her knuckle to Rose’s lips. The baby rooted around for a moment, then found the knuckle and settled down, sucking strongly.

“Oh, I love their little tongues,” Sara whispered.

“And this one sucks like a master, she does.”

Sara laughed softly.

“Now, tell me of the new Duke! He is finally here. Are we to have a wedding soon?”

Sara sighed. “Oh, Melina, I may have to hit him over the head with a brick and drag him to the altar unconscious.”

“Sounds like a good plan to me.”

Sara could hear the weariness in Melina’s voice and knew that it was not because of the labor she had just endured to bring little Rose into the world. Melina, along with most of the tenants, believed in the Rawlston curse. They all thought that the only way they would ever prosper was if the Duke married in the next two months.