Malia Martin (6 page)

“Damn!”

“What is it?” Stu asked, as Trevor glanced frantically about the hall, then strode toward the kitchen.

“Duchess!” he yelled. “Sara!”

His only answer was his own voice echoing back to him.

“What does the note say?” Stu asked.

Trevor shoved the paper at the solicitor. “Read it.”

Stu took the offering, his eyes tracking across the page silently.

“Out loud!”

The man jumped, his nose quivering like a rabbit’s. He regarded Trevor for a moment with unguarded animosity in his eyes, then with a sigh snapped the paper closer to his own face. “I am holding your watch hostage,” Stu read. He looked up with a furrowed brow. “What on earth . . .”

“Go on!” Trevor demanded.

“All right, all right.” He returned to the note. “You may retrieve it at Rawlston, your grace. I shall relinquish the keepsake to none other than you. ’Tis signed, ‘Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Rawlston, Sara Whitney.’” Stu
crumpled the paper in his hand. “Good God, the woman is mad!”

Trevor threw his jacket onto a gilded chair in the hall. “I am in complete concurrence with your determination.”

“Well,” Stu said. “You must worry about nothing, your grace. I will retrieve the watch and send it to you in Paris.” He held the paper up suddenly. “And I shall have her committed upon the strength of this outrageous letter.”

Trevor frowned. “Committed? That seems extreme.”

“She is definitely beyond her wits, and this letter proves it without a doubt!” Stu stated rather triumphantly.

Trevor blinked uneasily. “You know, Stu, I think perhaps I
should
go to Rawlston with you.” Trevor swallowed against the bad taste on his tongue that sentiment brought, but continued. “You did say I am her only family, after all, And it seems she needs help.”

“Which she will surely get from a doctor, your grace.” Stu folded the note precisely. “You must not worry yourself about this matter. I shall handle it.”

Trevor watched his solicitor carefully pocket the damning letter. Something nagged at his mind. There was something about this situation that just did not feel right. He remembered that a few moments ago Stu had vehemently opposed putting the Duchess under the care of a physician, and now he seemed absolutely exultant that he could put her away in an asylum. “No, Stu, I am going to Rawlston.” The declaration surprised them both.

Stu’s breathing increased audibly.

“Yes, I am going,” Trevor said again. “A quick trip. I shall retrieve the watch and make sure the Duchess is well enough living at Rawlston alone.”

“No, your grace, I must say I think this decision is . . . well, ill-timed,” Stu said quickly. “That is to say, it is completely unnecessary, and—well, you will only be overwhelmed by the, um . . . the . . .” The lawyer chewed his bottom lip.

Trevor waited, wondering what exactly Stu was trying to say. The solicitor looked stumped himself. “There is no argument, man, I shall leave on the morrow.” Trevor plunged his fingers through his hair, letting forth a smell of soot and smoke. “I shall call on you at your offices, of course. I cannot go without you.” No, he did not dare go alone.

“Please, I must beg you not to go,” Stu pleaded, his tone rather desperate sounding.

Trevor squinted at the man. Was there something at Rawlston that Trevor should not see? The solicitor was most obviously afraid of something. It was nice, at least, that others besides him had their fears. He shook his head. “No, I am going to Rawlston.” He took up his jacket. “I shall see you in the morning, then,
Stu.” He dismissed the fidgeting solicitor with a flick of his hand.

“But . . .”

“I came all the way to London to save the woman from hanging; the least I can do is follow her to Rawlston, as she wishes, and perhaps relieve her mind with my visit.” Trevor turned down the stairs to the kitchen. “It may help her, who knows? Now, off to bed, man—’Tis late, and I’m tired.”

Trevor took the stairs two at a time and sighed as he entered the kitchen. His head had begun to pound, and he was absolutely terrified to go to Rawlston. The thought of so many people looking to him for leadership made him queasy. “What have I done?” he asked the room. “I want nothing to do with this.”

But he could not let the poor woman be put away. She deserved some respect. She was the Duchess, after all.

A knock sounded faintly from above, and Trevor blew out a huff of exasperation. He brightened, though, as he made his way to the front door. Perhaps it was the Duchess coming back with a contrite heart. He pulled open the door and beheld the painted face of a buxom blonde.

“‘Is grace in?” The woman tilted her hip out, curling her hand against it. “I believe ‘e sent for me.

Trevor just laughed. He dug into his pocket
and pulled out a gold piece. “The Duke has had unexpected business come up.”

The woman winked and caught the coin he tossed her. “I’d like to get
your
bisness up, bloke.” She shoved the coin between her large breasts. “What do you say?”

“It’s tempting, truly.” He smiled and eyed her chest admiringly. “But . . .” he gestured toward the dark hall behind him. “Just can’t leave my post. Duty calls!”

“Them dukes are taskmasters,” the whore commiserated.

“Ain’t they but.” Trevor shrugged as the woman sauntered away.

T
hree days later, Trevor sat at a small wooden table in the darkened common room of an inn, alone. He was at the end of his journey, actually. According to the signpost he had passed, he was now in Rawlston. Rather than find Rawlston Hall, though, Trevor was having a bite to eat. He was bolstering his courage, really.

Trevor tipped a relatively clean mug against his lips and took a long swig of ale, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He had chosen to ride a horse rather than be cooped up in a carriage for so long, and his backside was reminding him painfully that he had not ridden in a terribly long time.

There was one good thing that might come from this expedition to the English countryside: he would be able to ride once more—long, hard rides at full gallop. He shifted a bit on his hard
chair. As soon as he recovered from this particular ride, of course.

The thin serving wench approached skittishly. “Are ye done, then, sir?”

Trevor smiled. “Aye, my lady, and a fine dinner it was.”

The woman’s pale features brightened with a pink blush at his address. Her hand fluttered at her throat, and she dipped her head. “Would ye like more?”

“Perhaps another plug of ale?”

“Aye, sir.” She dipped a small curtsey and took the plate that sat before him, hooking the mug through her finger. She kept her eyes away from his gaze, reminding him, suddenly, of his mother. The thought made his mouth go sour, and he almost grabbed the mug to drain just another drop from it.

With a sigh, Trevor pushed the thoughts of his mother aside as the serving girl shoved through the doors to the kitchen. Now was not the moment to relive bad times. He had enough of those looking at him from the future.

Stu had not been at his offices when Trevor had gone to fetch him. The lawyer had not been home, either. In fact, his housekeeper seemed to think the man had gone on a journey, a long one. Trevor had begun to get a very bad feeling.

He had penned a note, quite a feat, that. He usually used a scribe since he found writing his own letters abhorrent. In his mind’s eye, Trevor pictured the cramped letters he had formed
with the quill provided by Stu’s housekeeper. They resembled those made by a boy still in the schoolroom. Trevor cringed just at the thought.

But his missive to Stu had been short, for Trevor felt sure the man would never get it.

He had a terrible feeling that he would never see Stu again. Trevor slouched against the back of his chair and shoved his hands in his coat pockets. No, with the man’s sudden disappearance came a clear realization that Stu had been acting nervous and strange ever since Trevor had shown up in London.

He had himself a crazy duchess, a cheating solicitor, and an estate . . . the state of which had him panicking in regular intervals as he made the journey toward Rawlston. Just the thought of the paperwork and responsibilities awaiting him made Trevor want to turn his horse’s head around and flee to the far reaches of the earth.

A crash from the kitchen brought Trevor out of his musings, and then a man’s threatening voice raised in ire had him pushing up quickly from his chair. A scream, high and feminine, rang out before more words from the man and then the sound of flesh slapping flesh.

Trevor knew the sound well. He was through the door of the kitchen before it had even registered in his brain what he was doing.

The serving wench cowered on the ground, a puddle of strong-smelling ale swirled about her feet. A large, beefy man stood over her, his eyes dark and beady.

“What goes on here?” Trevor asked.

“Nothing that would concern you, sir.” The man dismissed Trevor with a wave of his hand. “Get up, girl, and clean up that mess. If it happens agin’, you’ll be lookin’ for work somewhere else, you will.”

The girl whimpered and sloshed at the spilled ale with a soggy rag.

Trevor pulled a deep breath into his tight lungs. He gave the inn owner his best glare. “You should not hit her,” he said.

The man looked at Trevor as if he were daft. “And that would be none of your bisness, I’d say.”

The girl stood quickly. “I’ll be right out with yer ale, sir,” she said, keeping her eyes downcast. “Please, sir,” she urged, when he did not move.

Trevor clenched his teeth. The whole scene was just too close to the truth of his memories. His father, large and angry; his mother, flitting about and shooing him away.

She had always made him leave. And he had always done as she’d wanted. When he had tried to put himself between the fists of his father and the pale, thin skin of his mother, it had just caused her more upset.

Trevor looked from the pleading face of the girl before him to the bullying stance of the man.

“We don’ allow patrons back here, guv,” the man said.

Trevor stared at him, then said slowly, “I am the Duke of Rawlston, sir. You may refer to me as such from this moment on.”

The man blinked.

The girl gasped.

Trevor looked at her. “What is your name?”

She swallowed so hard he heard the sound of it, and stood. “I am Trudy, sir . . . your grace.”

“And how much do you make working for this man, Trudy?”

Trudy looked as if she wanted to sink through the floor. She wrapped her fingers in her apron and glanced at the man behind her.

“Never mind, it doesn’t matter,” Trevor said. “Come with me. I will double your wage—no, triple it. And you shall not be abused working in the kitchens of Rawlston.”

The man started to protest, but Trevor cut him off. “And you, sir—if I hear that you abuse whoever takes Trudy’s place, I shall return and let you know how it feels to be hit by someone twice as strong as you.”

The man swallowed his protest and stared at Trevor bug-eyed.

“Come, Trudy.” Trevor turned on his heel and quit the small kitchen, for the first time feeling very happy to be the Duke of Rawlston.

He walked with Trudy through the town, leading his borrowed gelding because Trudy had looked as if she would rather stick burning
bamboo shoots under her fingernails than ride behind him. They garnered many stares from those they passed, and poor Trudy looked as red as a beet by the time they reached a long stretch of open road.

They walked quietly along, since Trudy almost swallowed her tongue every time he tried to talk to her. She pointed when they came to a gravel road leading off to the right. Two large stone pillars, gray and dingy with age, framed the lane. Trevor swallowed hard and took a deep breath. He stood staring at the small road, unable to move for a paralyzing instant.

He tilted his head back, staring at the leaden sky. “Have you ever thought, Trudy, that God must be quite a funny fellow?”

The girl moved beside him, her shoes scraping over the dirt, but she said nothing.

Trevor laughed with no merriment. “Oh, yes, quite a sense of humor, I’d say.” He sighed, then, and started forward, down the winding lane lined with large trees. He saw the towers first, looking like a castle of old, then slowly becoming the most horrendous structure he had ever seen. It was a huge stone mansion, the main part reminiscent of a seventeenth-century castle, with numerous wings shooting every which way, each using different building materials and styles.

Trevor could only stare, as he and Trudy trudged around the carriage circle in front of Rawlston and stopped at the massive steps to
the front door. They stood there silently for a while.

Finally he realized that a groom had not come running. In fact, nobody had seemed to notice his arrival. Trevor dismounted and dropped Rusty’s reins. The easygoing gelding showed no inclination to move from the spot of grass he had found growing up through the gravel, so Trevor took a deep breath, mounted the stairs, and banged the brass knocker against the large wooden door.

He waited for what seemed years, then moved to knock again, but the door creaked open.

“Finally,” Sara said, standing before him, hands on hips, a beautiful smile gracing her mouth. He had never seen her clean. He had believed her hair to be the hue of old dishwater, but actually it was a golden kaleidoscope of color. Every shade of blonde streaked her thick tresses that coiled in a knot at the crown of her head. Curls framed her face, their ends teasing the tops of her slender shoulders. She wore a simple dress, tied just beneath her breasts, made of some light fabric that made her look like a maiden set for romping about a maypole. All she needed was a wreath of flowers in her hair.

Trevor scowled. “I am not happy.”

“Too bad.” She peered around him, frowned and whispered harshly, “What are you doing with Trudy, your grace?”

“Well,” Trevor tapped his finger against his chin. “I thought perhaps a virgin sacrifice—but then she would have to remain a virgin, and what is the fun in that?”

The stories of his Paris life must have been greatly exaggerated, for the Duchess believed him completely. Her eyes rounded, and her jaw went slack.