Malia Martin (2 page)

“Now, Trevor . . . your grace.” Stu walked up behind him and actually patted his shoulder. It was not a comforting gesture in the least; those spindly blue-veined hands so near him made Trevor stiffen. “That is what I am for! Remember? I helped you through school. I will help you through this.” He chuckled. “Although the end of this is not graduation, but death.”

God, when had Stuart become so smooth? Trevor shook his head. “I do not want to have
anything to do with this, Stu.” There were people out there, people living in a place called Rawlston who would want him to come and puzzle through their problems, help them make an estate prosperous. Trevor felt a trickle of sweat bead up at his nape and trickle down his spine.

“Your grace,” Stu said, in a soft, reassuring voice. “I am a solicitor now. I can make all your problems disappear. Do you want to live as if nothing has happened?” Stu patted his back. “It is done. I shall take care of it.”

Trevor blinked, staring out his little window at a bluebird that hopped about on the ledge outside. Yes, Stu could take care of it. Just so Trevor would not have to change his life, face people who expected something of him, face stacks of ledgers and papers brimming with words.

Oh, how he hated words.

Newgate Prison, 1820

T
hings were not going well at all. Sara Whitney, Dowager Duchess of Rawlston, clutched the rusted bars of her cell, pulling herself onto her tiptoes in order to breathe the relatively clean air that wafted by her high window. The stench of ripe chamberpots and unwashed bodies had driven her finally to press her face as close to the window as possible, but she was not sure that the soot-filled air that stagnated outside the bars of her cell was any better than what she breathed inside. With a sigh, Sara relaxed back, putting her hand to her nose as she turned around into the darkness of her dank room.

Yes, things had definitely gone from bad to worse, Sara thought, as she slumped down onto the bale of rotting hay that served as her chair. Being put in jail for treason had been a chink in her plans Sara had not anticipated.

Still, when the cell doors had shut behind her with a clang, she had hoped, at least, that her incarceration would finally garner her the new Duke’s attention, which she had been trying to capture for the last ten months.

It had not.

That had been a fortnight ago, and still she sat in the dark, musty prison, awaiting her sentencing. Sara made a disgusted sound, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, then shrieked as a mangy rat scurried across her foot.

She would never get used to the things. Sara shivered and closed her eyes for a moment.

“Well, Duchess, seems someone remembered that you were here!”

Sara opened her eyes and jumped to her feet. The stout little jailer who had brought her food for the last couple of weeks shoved one of the keys on his massive ring into the lock of her door.

“What?” Sara cried.

“You’re free.” The man swung open the door, turned on his heel, and started down the murky hallway.

Sara stared at the open door to her cell and blinked. “What on earth is going on here?” she cried, picking up her skirts and following the vague shadow of the retreating jailer.

“Some duke came and said to let you free,” the man’s voice echoed in the stone hall. “So you’re free.” He turned a corner.

“Some duke?” Sara stopped dead. The Duke! She hiked up her gown and sprinted after the jailer. “The Duke of Rawlston is here?” She took the corner at high speed and nearly fell headlong down a tiny stairwell. Sara could hear footsteps descending and hurried after them. Finally, the Duke of Rawlston was on English soil. She would be able to speak to the man, make him realize the dire straits his estate and people were in. Sara smiled hugely as she took the last two steps in a single leap. Things were not as bad as she had thought, after all.

The room at the bottom of the stairs was large, and windows lined one entire wall. The bright light they emitted shone harshly against Sara’s eyes, since she was used to the dark bowels of the prison. Sara squinted until the black shadows in the room slowly began to take on human characteristics. The jailer stood at the other end of the room, speaking with a small woman. Another man stood closer to her. Sara took in his foppish clothes and thinning, pale hair, and knew that it must be the Duke.

“Your grace,” Sara and the Duke said together, then stopped.

Sara strode forward. “You must return with me to Rawlston, your grace.”

The man’s pencil-thin brows arched and his nostrils wriggled with amazing dexterity. Sara
stopped in the middle of her passionate summons and stared.

“I am not his grace.” The man pronounced each word with delicate care. “I am Andrew Stuart, his grace’s . . .”

“Oh! Mr. Stuart, it is very good to meet you, sir. My husband thought very highly of you. But I have been trying to contact
you
, as well!” Sara stood a bit straighter, quite relieved, actually, that this mouse of a man was not the new Duke of Rawlston. “You
do
realize that we have received absolutely no monies for the support of Rawlston Hall? I am sure that this must be a mistake. I have been paying the servants with the small allowance I receive from an inheritance from my mother. But truly, ’Tis not much, and I have had to stretch the budget to incredible proportions.” Sara shook her head. “And I have not been able to do all that is necessary to support such a large estate. We need the Duke . . .” Sara glanced around once more, noting with disappointment that there was no one else besides Mr. Stuart, the jailer, and the woman. “Is he here?” she asked hopefully.

Mr. Stuart cleared his throat, his nostrils working vigorously. “He is not here, your grace.” His eyelids dropped and trembled as if he were trying to open them again, but could not. “His grace appeared before the court on your behalf yesterday.” His eyelids finally slid open, his pupils dilating, dark and snakelike.

Sara frowned and took a small step back.

“He did much more than I expected him to, actually, considering the circumstances. And he is now on his way back to Paris.”

Sara felt as if her heart had dropped into her toes.

“Mrs. Glavas will check you out, your grace.” The jailer spoke up. “She’ll give you your personal effects, and then you’re free to go.”

Sara glanced over at Mrs. Glavas waiting with Sara’s things, then back at Mr. Stuart. “Back to Paris? For the love of St. Peter, will he never acknowledge his new title?”

“His grace may do as he wishes.” Mr. Stuart started toward the jailer. “Shall we get you out of here, your grace? ’Tis not the sort of place people of your . . .”—he paused, his lips pinching together—” . . . station,” he said with a slight tone of derision, “should loiter about.”

“But the Duke—I must see him!” She turned toward the jailer. “Did he come here at all?”

“Nope, he went to the court yesterday and told ‘em that you’re insane.”

“Insane!” Sara could only stare.

The jailer ignored her outburst. “He ordered that you be set free; they obliged him. And now you’re free.” He looped a leather thong through his key ring and let it hang against his leg. “Been nice knowin’ you.” He gave a jaunty salute as he left.

“But . . .” Sara turned her gaze on Mrs. Glavas. The woman dumped a handful of objects
out on the table. “One sovereign, two buttons, a purse, and an apple.”

Sara grabbed the apple. It was a bit mushy, but she bit into it anyway. “Mmmm.” Mushy or not, it tasted like ambrosia.

“Shall we go, your grace?” Mr. Stuart opened the outside door and looked at her over his long nose. “I have a carriage waiting to take you back to Rawlston, and I’ve taken the liberty of bringing some clothes.” He blinked with obvious disgust at her gown.

Sara stared down at herself as the bite of apple scraped down her throat like a knot of wood. Her dress was filthy and torn. She most definitely looked nothing like a duchess should. She straightened her spine, though, and glared at the snobbish lawyer. “Why, thank you, Mr. Stuart. It will be wonderful to don a clean gown. But I must inform you that I shall not leave London until I have spoken with the Duke. I will go on to Paris, if I must.” Sara gathered her few possessions, shoved them in the small reticule, then brushed past Mr. Stuart on her way down the stairs and into the street. Sara took a great big breath of air as Mr. Stuart came up beside her.

A grand carriage pulled by, no less than eight horses stood awaiting her. Sara scowled. “His grace is willing to spend rather a lot to get me out of London, isn’t he?”

“He wanted you to be comfortable, and he expressly asked that you be escorted out of London immediately.” Mr. Stuart’s nostrils flared. “You have been quite an embarrassment.”

Sara huffed a small laugh. “He is the one who announced my mental instability to the world.”

“He had no other choice, your grace. You can hang for treason, you know.”

“I did not lead a revolt against him,” Sara started to protest, then realized that Mr. Stuart would not listen to her. What a fop. She flicked a glance over the man’s high-heeled satin shoes and light green silk waistcoat. His clothes would pay for enough seed to cultivate an entire field—probably more, actually. Sara threw the mushy apple into the street and wiped her hand against her skirt.

“So,” she gently changed the subject. “Has the duke already left London, then?”

Mr. Stuart hesitated a mere second, his lids blinking nervously. “Yes.”

Liar.

“And anyway,” the man continued, “his grace has absolutely no desire to go to Rawlston. He has informed me on many occasions that he shall never reside there, and has no wish even to see the place.”

Sara clicked her back teeth together as she looked at the coach, then back at the lawyer. “Are
you
going to return to Rawlston with me?”

The man’s thin lips twisted grotesquely. “No, your grace, I am a rather busy man. But I have hired a footman to assist you as you wish.”

Sara wanted to protest the lavish use of money, but she saw the footman and stopped.

Mr. Stuart turned toward her as the young footman winked broadly. Sara bit her lip and fluttered her lashes. “How very thoughtful of you.” She smiled. “Well, I guess we should start immediately. ’Tis a long journey to Rawlston.”

Mr. Stuart blinked, then quickly tugged open the door to the coach. The footman ran forward to let down the stairs. “Thank you,” Sara gushed, using Mr. Stuart’s hand to help her into the carriage. She sat, then turned pleading eyes upon the lawyer. “Please inform the Duke that we truly hope he has a change of heart. We desperately await a visit from his grace.”

“I shall inform him of your wish, your grace,” Mr. Stuart said felicitously. “I shall send him a letter post haste.”

“Of course you will.”

Mr. Stuart slammed the door on her, and she heard him speak under his breath with the coachman. She waved through the leaded glass as the coach rolled slowly away from the curb. Then she settled back against the leather squabs to wait. It did not take long.

The footman, standing behind the coach, gave a yell about two blocks from the prison, and the coachman pulled the team to a stop. Sara watched the boy run forward and speak to the older man holding the reins. She waited for a moment and, when she was sure the man
looked in another direction, Sara slipped from the coach and ducked into an alley.

Their conversation over, the footman ran to the rear of the carriage and jumped on as the coachman slapped the reins against the horses. The coach moved off slowly, the footman jumping clear half a street away and running back.

“So the whole country thinks you’re bonkers,” he said, laughing as he ran up to her.

Sara shoved away from her grimy hiding place. “Grady. What in the name of St. Peter are you doing here?”

The boy pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his ratted coat and shrugged. “They sent me to make sure ya dinna hang.”

Sara couldn’t help but giggle. “And exactly how would you have done that, young man?”

Grady pulled his cap lower on his forehead and peered around the deserted street. “Woulda broke you out if it’a come to it, yer grace.”

“Right.” Sara nodded as she contemplated the brickwork of the building across the street. “Well, I will have to thank everyone for thinking of me.”

Grady shrugged again. “We’d be dead without you.”

“Grady,” Sara said, as she looped her arm through his, “you will never die.”

Grady pulled away quickly. “Can’t be actin’ like we know each other, yer grace. We’re in London now. They take stock in keepin’ the up
per classes separate from the lower classes.” The boy nodded for her to keep walking. “I’ll just stay a few paces behind.”

“Oh, fustian. I’m a vicar’s daughter who just got sprung from jail, Grady.”

“You’re also the Dowager Duchess of Rawlston, yer grace.” Grady scowled at her. “Don’t be forgettin’ that.”

Sara huffed a small laugh and turned down the pavement. “Believe me, Grady, I’m not about to forget it. Although it did me no good when that old biddy Rachel sent the constable after me.” They walked a few paces in silence. Sara sighed, wondering if it would matter that the country thought she was a raving lunatic heading revolts against the Duke of Rawlston. It shouldn’t. She didn’t spend time in society or with anyone other than the people of Rawlston. She hadn’t been in London in nearly fourteen years.

“We goin’ to find the Duke, yer grace?” Grady asked, interrupting Sara’s thoughts.

“Yes,” she said, without breaking her stride.

“You dinna believe that ol’ fop, either?”

“No, I am rather sure the Duke is still in London, but who knows for how long?”

“You going to make him come back to Rawlston, then?”

“Yes. Now that I can talk to him face to face, I’m going to force him to live up to his responsibilities.”

They passed a group of dirty-looking young
boys crouched in a circle playing some game with dice. “Ye won’t be sayin’ anything about the curse, now, will ye?”

“Of course not!” Sara pulled her shoulders back and sniffed. “Why on earth would I talk to the Duke about that silly curse?”