The Duke (21 page)

“There aren't any poachers within fifty miles of here,” Brandy said, her voice harsh and cold. “It's just as Grandmama said, what's here to poach? Nothing at all.”

“Still,” Mr. Trevor began, but Brandy heard Wee Robert's familiar voice and raced out to see him. He let her talk, just nodding, knowing shock when he saw it. He let her walk beside him to the duke's bedchamber and patted her hand before closing the bedchamber door in her face.

Time seemed to have stopped. Brandy came back
into the drawing room. Mr. Trevor was speaking in a low voice to Lady Adella.

He looked up at Brandy's entrance. “We can decide upon that matter, Lady Adella, after I've heard Brandella's story.” He frowned. His frown deepened after Brandy told him the few facts. “It would appear to me that ye saved the duke's life, lass.” He turned to Lady Adella. “I understand, my lady, that Mr. Percival Robertson no longer stands in, shall we say, an ambiguous position.”

“Aye, that's true enough,” she said slowly, eyeing him as a fox would a pheasant. She then drew herself upright and added in her most imperious voice, “Ye'll stop yer nonsensical thinking, Trevor. I'll thank ye not to involve any of the family in this affair. I suppose ye'll be asking me next if Claude Robertson's gout is nothing but a wily trick and he pulled the trigger. A lawless tinker must be the culprit, and it's time for ye to go find the wretch. Bedamned to ye, I've known ye all yer blessed life, even knew yer mama, weak-kneed woman that she was. I'll see that ye're unblessed if ye don't mind yer manners. Catch that bloody tinker and stop thinking what ye're thinking.”

The lines about Mr. Trevor's mouth deepened, but he remained calm, which was an accomplishment, Brandy thought, in near awe, after being subjected to one of Grandmama's harangues.

He said now, “It's a serious matter, my lady, and I'm only trying to do my duty. I ask ye to forget, at least for the moment, any tinker, for there aren't any about to the best of my knowledge, and tell me who in yer judgment would wish the English duke dead. Nay, don't rave at me any more about the loyal, honest Robertsons. That isn't the point now. A man's life is at stake, yer kinsman's life.”

Percy's name stood starkly in Brandy's mind. She wanted to shriek his name aloud. He'd come running
down the cliff path so very soon, as if he'd just been waiting. But she held herself silent. Every Robertson, each in his own way, would gain by Ian's death.

Lady Adella thwacked her cane hard against the floor and snorted with disgust. “Damn ye, Trevor, why does any villain show his true colors? I'll tell ye again, ye are sniffing in the wrong foxhole. No Robertson would have done such a cowardly deed.”

Mr. Trevor held his peace. He wanted to say that old Angus would have shot anyone in the back in an instant of displeasure, but he was dead, and he didn't want to risk Lady Adella toppling over with apoplexy. It also seemed to him that Mr. Percival Robertson was the likeliest suspect, as his becoming legitimate had made him next in line to the title. Ah, but what about Claude and his son, Bertrand? Wasn't the devious old lady undoing the infamous disinheritance? No, he had no intention of dismissing other members of the family. What an altogether wretched situation. Why an English duke? And in his part of the county too. It wasn't fair. It was more than a sober man could bear.

He rose slowly to take his leave. “Let us trust, Lady Adella, that his grace will be able to provide me more information on the morrow. I will be back to speak with him, God grant that he's still alive.”

Lady Adella snorted and waved him away. “Of course he'll be alive, ye fool. He's of my blood. He'll not be brought low by a coward's bullet.”

When Crabbe had escorted Mr. Trevor out, Lady Adella turned a contemptuous eye toward Felicity, who was sitting on the sofa, still looking dazed. She looked very helpless, fragile, and Lady Adella admired such ability. “Brandy, call for Lady Felicity's maid. She'll do better in her own room.”

Brandy did as she was bidden, thankful for any activity that would keep her mind occupied.

A
s the morning lengthened into afternoon, Wee Robert still hadn't come downstairs.

“Tearing yer shawl to shreds won't make him come down any faster, child,” Lady Adella said. “It was a shock, I'll give ye that, hearing that shot, watching him fall. I'll not even reprimand ye for falling on him. Ye saved him and that must stand by itself. Try to ease yerself, Brandy. That's a good girl.”

“Aye, Grandmama.” But she continued fretting mercilessly at the fringe. It occurred to her that her grandmother was acting uncommonly gentle with her. That would have made her nervous had she not been so scared for Ian.

Crabbe entered the drawing room a step in front of the doctor. “Elgin Robert, milady.”

“I've eyes in my head, Crabbe. Well, Wee Robert, how fares the duke?”

Elgin Robert took no offense at this nickname, having grown quite used to it over the past fifteen years, and walked wearily into the room. He was a man whose body had betrayed him, rendering him a mere five feet tall in his stocking feet. He rubbed a chubby hand over his brow and advanced toward Lady Adella.

“His grace will, I think, recover, my lady,” he said in a gentle, almost girlishly soft voice. “The ball
entered his back just below his left shoulder. I might add that yer kinsman was a stoic to the point of causing me concern. Not one sound did he make when I drew out the bullet. White and blown he is now, to be sure, but resting more comfortably. There's only fever and infection to concern us now.”

Wee Robert gratefully accepted a cup of tea from Constance and took a long drink. “The duke is young and quite strong. He'll pull through quite nicely, quite nicely. Nasty business, though. Did Trevor have any notion of who shot him? Brandy?”

“Nasty, indeed,” Lady Adella said. “That fool Trevor left here as stupid as he was when he came. I vow that man is only good for catching urchins who steal apples. He believes it's one of us who shot the duke. And, no, Brandy doesn't know a bloody thing, more's the pity.”

“Is his grace awake?” Brandy asked.

“Nay, lass, I gave him a hefty dose of laudanum. Sleep is the best healer, ye know.”

Percy, Giles, and Bertrand entered the drawing room together, each man's face white and drawn.

Wee Robert turned to them. “I thank all of ye gentleman for yer help.” He turned away abruptly, realizing that possibly one of them had brought the duke to his present condition. It was a hell of a mess.

Bertrand nodded and asked, “Trevor came, Lady Adella?”

“Aye, I was just telling Wee Robert that the man brays like an ass. It's his idea to lay the blame at a Robertson's door. Of course, it must be one of those damned tinkers responsible. No Robertson could have done such a thing. Actually, no Robertson would be such a bad shot. The killer had three tries and botched all of them except that first one.”

Giles raised a brow and gazed at Percy and Bertrand.

“Where is Uncle Claude?” Brandy blurted out.

Bertrand stared at her. “Good God, Brandy, surely ye don't think that my father could be capable of such a despicable act?”

“For that matter,” Percy said, interrupting, “do any of us know where the other was when Ian was shot? For all we know, it could have even been Brandy who brought him low.”

“We might begin with where you were, Percy,” Bertrand said coldly.

“Ah, dear cousin, do I detect a note of suspicion in yer voice? If ye must know, I was endeavoring to avoid the filthy stench of yer precious sheep, difficult since their odor carries itself in the breeze.”

“I don't think that such haggling will get us to the truth,” Giles said, “nor will it aid in cementing trust or friendship. Incidentally, where is Lady Felicity?”

“She went into hysterics, then fainted,” Constance said, a good deal of contempt in her voice.

“A stupid question,” Giles said and sighed. “I should have guessed as much. Some things never change, do they?”

Wee Robert, who was hunched down with his teacup, embarrassed and uncomfortable, rose and bowed to Lady Adella. He couldn't wait to leave. He felt sorry for those who had to stay. He said, “I can see that my presence is no longer needed. I will pay the duke a visit tomorrow morning. Brandy, don't look so scared. He should be fine. Don't worry.”

“But what if he worsens during the night?” Brandy asked in a panic.

“I'm but fifteen minutes away, lass.”

After Crabbe led Wee Robert out, Bertrand turned to Brandy. “It was lucky for Ian that ye were on the beach, lass. But ye put yerself in grave danger, ye know, and that scares us all to our toes.”

Percy said, “Just why were ye there on the beach, Brandy?”

“I was merely avoiding the stench, like ye, Percy.” She found herself looking about from one face to another, searching for any sign that might betray the owner's guilt. But she saw nothing, and as she had no wish to hear any further pointless bickering, she slipped quietly from the room, her destination the duke's bedchamber. His valet, Mabley, had to be with him, and it was this gentleman that she wanted to see.

She walked quietly past Felicity's room, wanting to raise her fist and shake it, but of course she didn't, just kept walking, wishing that lady would just somehow disappear. She quietly opened the duke's door and slipped into the darkened room. She didn't see Mabley and cursed him silently for leaving his master alone. She heard Ian's deep, even breathing and walked quietly to his bedside. He appeared so natural in his sleep, the strain of his ordeal not evident on his face.

“Miss Brandy. What are you doing here?”

She spun about, automatically placing a finger to her lips.

He lowered his voice as he walked toward her. “You shouldn't be here, really you shouldn't,” Mabley said. He looked at her closely and saw such fear in her eyes, fear and pain. Damnation, he was too old for this kind of thing. His hands were still shaking from wiping the sweat from the duke's brow while Wee Robert had probed for the bullet.

She shushed him again with her finger on her lips. “His grace is resting. He's sleeping. Didn't the doctor tell you he would be all right? No, we don't have to whisper. He's got enough laudanum in him to keep a battalion of troops asleep.”

Still she said nothing, just motioned for him to follow her. He trailed after her, wishing he could have a mug of ale. Yes, that would make his old bones settle nicely.

She said without preamble, “We mustn't leave his grace alone, not even for a moment, Mabley.”

“It weren't my intention to leave him take care of himself, Miss Brandy. You needn't worry yourself about the duke, not with me here.”

“Nay, ye don't understand. Ye know that someone tried to kill him. We can't trust anyone, do ye hear? He's helpless as a babe now, he can't defend himself.”

“It makes no difference. I'm here. I'll take good care of him.”

Brandy used her grandmother's imperious tone: “If ye'll stay with him during the day, I'll not leave him at night.” There, she'd said it.

“That would be most unseemly, Miss Brandy. Surely Mr. Giles or Mr. Bertrand or—”

“Can you promise me that none of those men shot the duke? No, of course you can't. I don't want any one of them ever to be alone with him, ever. Don't ye see, Mabley, we can't afford to take any risks. He could die.”

Mabley rubbed his sagging jaw, trying to gather together his weary wits. “If it could be dangerous, like you say, then I'll not allow you, a small female, begging your pardon—”

Time for more of Lady Adella's imperious voice. “See here, Mabley, Grandfather Angus had a remarkable gun collection. I'll have one of his pistols with me. I'll keep the outer doors locked. Does that make ye rest easy?”

Mabley was very much of the belief that guns and females were not fit company for each other, but he could tell she wasn't about to back down. At least he could be certain that she hadn't shot the duke. One of those blighters had, but not Miss Brandy. What was he to do?

He gave her a sour look. “You'll wear yourself out,
miss, and then what will your grandmother say to me?”

“Nonsense. Now, promise me ye'll not leave him. I'll bring ye yer dinner later and then ye may take yerself to bed.” Brandy turned away before he could come out with another argument. She smiled as she heard his defeated sigh behind her.

 

The small clock on the mantel rang out a faint ten strokes. Brandy rose from the hob, where a pot of broth lay hot and ready, and walked quietly to the bed. She laid the palm of her hand on the duke's forehead. He was still cool to the touch, thank God. Still, Wee Robert had warned that a fever could strike at any time during the next few days.

“I'll not let anyone hurt ye again,” she said, leaned over and kissed his mouth. “Ye'll sleep now and heal. I'll watch over ye.” She straightened and walked back to the warmth of the fire. Quickly she stripped off her clothing and pulled on her cotton nightgown over her head, tying the drawstring at her neck. It took her longer to unbraid her hair and brush out the masses of ripples. Finally she fastened her shawl about her shoulders and walked back to the bedside.

He lay motionless, breathing deeply and evenly. She settled into the large chair she had drawn up and tucked her feet under her. Before allowing herself to relax, Brandy looked one last time at the locked door, then at the small pistol that lay on the nightstand beside her. Mabley was sound asleep in the adjoining room. That door was also locked, Brandy having insisted that he comply with her instructions. Her only concern was the corridor door to Mabley's room, for which there was no lock.

Only Lady Adella and Mabley knew of her vigil. To Brandy's surprise, Lady Adella had heard her out,
regarding her in a rather peculiar manner, but didn't gainsay her.

“Humph, it's just as well that we don't tell anyone else, child,” she had said, looking away. “I have no desire for that milk-and-honey Felicity to be raising a ruckus and ruining what little peace I have left.”

Brandy heard no ruckus from anyone that night. She was surprised when Mabley shook her shoulder the next morning.

“Oh, Mabley, it's morning already? I'm sorry. I'd thought to be dressed and wake ye up.”

Mabley grunted, then looked down at his sleeping master. “Hie yourself off now, Miss Brandy, I'll see to him now.”

Later that morning, Mr. Trevor arrived and asked to see the duke. Wee Robert gave his consent, and while both men shared a cup of coffee with Lady Adella downstairs, Mabley gently awakened his master.

Ian awoke somewhat reluctantly, still dazed from the laudanum and with an intense pain in his shoulder.

“Ah, your grace. I'm glad to see your eyes open again.”

Ian wanted to sit up and he did try, but the pain in his shoulder brought him low. He cursed and closed his eyes, trying to gain control of the godawful pain. He forced himself to breathe deeply and slowly. In and out.

“You just lie still, your grace,” Mabley said in his most soothing voice. “I'll fetch you some broth that Miss Brandy has kept warm for you.”

In a voice that didn't sound at all like his, Ian said, “How long have I been asleep?”

“Since yesterday afternoon, your grace. Wee Robert gave you a powerful dose of laudanum, if your grace recalls.”

“Wee Robert,” the duke repeated slowly. “Why does that name seem familiar to me?”

“The doctor, your grace. A tiny little Scotsman, but fair good with his hands. He dug the ball out of your back.”

Ian winced at the now sharp memory of lying in exquisite agony as someone dug out that bullet. Other memories tugged at his mind, and he felt himself go pale.

“Mabley, is Brandy all right? She was with me on the beach, just before I was shot. Jesus, she's all right, isn't she?”

“Your grace mustn't upset yourself. Miss Brandy escaped injury. Indeed, the young lady, from what I can glean, your grace, saved your life.” He didn't think it wise to mention that the young lady was also the duke's self-appointed guardian during the night. No, the duke would have a fit if he knew that. He had very set notions about ladies and where they belonged.

“Mr. Trevor, the Scottish magistrate, wishes to see you, your grace. Do you feel well enough to speak with him?”

Ian nodded and tried to clear his mind. After he'd eaten the soup Brandy had made for him, and relieved himself, a bushy-browed gentleman dressed in somber black came to stand beside the bed.

“It's just a few minutes I need to talk with ye, yer grace.”

Ian nodded again, and tried to focus his wits away from the pain in his back. Mabley hadn't lied to him, had he? Brandy was all right, wasn't she?

“It appears to me that yer grace is a lucky man.”

“Mabley told me that Brandy saved my life,” the duke said, trying desperately to remember anything that would identify who had shot him.