The Wyndham Legacy (19 page)

He frowned and said, “I forgot. You've hated it since you were a little nit. All right, here are some sweet scones. Eat those. You look quite satisfactory, believe me, even in that virgin's gown. Some kidneys?”

“No thank you. Mrs. Gooseberry allowed you into her kitchen? I know how I look, Badger, in short, ridiculous.”

“I believe his lordship asked Mrs. Gooseberry to take a nice vacation early this morning. I am now in charge of the kitchens. There are two other cooks and I will direct them if I don't wish to prepare the dishes myself. I am, I told his lordship, still your valet and my first duties are to you. He got that stubborn look on his face, but I'll say this for him, he did manage to hold on to his temper. You look like a tender pullet in that gown and that's how his lordship better treat you.”

“The scones are delicious, Badger. His lordship will always do just as he pleases. You can't change him. I'm not a chicken, tender or otherwise.”

“Exactly. Now that you've taken a nice bite of that scone, chew it. That's it. Mr. Spears and I will attempt to change him if it becomes necessary. Now, tell me what happened.
Mr. Spears is most worried because his lordship was being snappish and rude to him—”

“Yes, I know. Marcus told Spears to go—oh yes, to go bugger himself.”

Badger looked shocked, his eyes nearly crossing. “You can't know what that means.”

“Well, no, but it can't be very nice, considering it's from Marcus and he was quite put out.”

“I won't tell you. Just never say it again, all right? Now, tell me what happened.”

She took another bite of scone and nearly choked on it. “I can't, Badger. Really, it's very personal.”

“He didn't hurt you again, did he?”

“He never really hurt me before. He didn't hurt me, no. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“Ah. How very strange. Or is it? Hmmm, I must think about this. Good God, you're blushing. You, the Duchess—who can freeze the wart off a face with just a look.”

“Badger, it's true, you're more my father than my real father ever was, but surely you must realize that such references embarrass me to my toes. And I'm not cold, please, I'm not, truly.”

“Yes, I can see that I could possibly make you feel uncomfortable. I'll tell Mr. Spears not to worry. I'll also tell him that you won't say such things as ‘bugger' ever again. Duchess, you will tell me if his lordship does anything that is, well, beyond what a gentleman should do?”

“I don't know,” she said, looking suddenly quite interested. She was wondering what that
beyond
could possibly entail. She'd become something last night she didn't know was possible, or perhaps if one called a spade a spade, she'd simply been loose as a tart. Maybe she was indeed a tart. How could she find out what she was? She looked at Badger, knowing she couldn't ask him, she'd die of embarrassment. Somehow she couldn't see asking Aunt Gweneth either. She could just see herself saying in a very calm voice that she'd lost all control, all desire to control.
She'd nearly burst with pleasure.

What was this
beyond
business? What else could there be? He could stay with her, hold her close and kiss her and fall asleep with her, but she knew deep down it wasn't that. She wanted to know very much.

“Meet me in that small morning room that you like, Duchess, and we will plan the menus for the week. I've a fancy to try my hand at some of those Frog dishes. Their
filet de truite poché à la sauce aux capres
wasn't bad, was it?”

“Ah, yes, the trout with capers.”

“And I shan't forget the
pommes-noisettes.
”

“No, it would never do to forget the potato balls.”

He grinned at her. “And perhaps some
asperges tendres à la sauce Bernaise.
Yes, that's it. Twenty minutes?”

She nodded. He patted her shoulder and took himself back to the kitchen.

“You surely shouldn't allow a servant such liberties, Duchess. Not only did he actually touch you, he was overly familiar in his speech. And he spoke
French.
”

“Did you hear all of it or just the last little bit?”

“Just enough, I daresay.” It was Aunt Wilhelmina and she looked primed for battle.

The Duchess said, “It's a lovely day, don't you think? I'm going for a walk. What do you think, Aunt Wilhelmina, a cottage bonnet or a small round straw hat tied under my chin by white ribbons?”

Aunt Wilhelmina frowned at her in frustration and chewed on her bottom lip.

“Or perhaps I could change into riding clothes. Then I could wear that adorable black beaver riding hat with the short ostrich plume. What do you think?”

“I hope you get tossed from your horse because you're a bitch.”

“
What?
Excuse me, ma'am?”

“I said, ‘You should be careful not to get lost and thrown into a ditch.' ”

“Ah, certainly. That's what I thought you said. It was just such a kindly sentiment that I was taken aback. It is rather early, isn't it?”

“Why don't you just go away?”

The Duchess just smiled at her, cocking her head to the side.

“I said, ‘Why don't you go enjoy the nice day?' ”

“Of course that's what you said. Such kindness from a relative I hadn't even heard of until Mr. Wicks told me of my father's legacy.”

“Well, all of us wish we'd never heard of you, but we had, for Gweneth has written about you over the years. Everyone also knows that you married his lordship for the position and the money.”

“Everyone? Could you be more specific, ma'am?”

Aunt Wilhelmina settled for an elaborate shrug. “My dear son Trevor said it was so and he is very smart.”

Trevor had said that?

She managed to say calmly, “It isn't true. No, ma'am. Regardless, I inherited fifty thousand pounds. That is quite a sufficient sum. It was Marcus who would have been hurt had we not married, not me.”

“Fifty thousand pounds! It's unheard of to leave a bastard such wealth!”

“I wasn't a bastard long after he left me the money. If you'll recall, Aunt Wilhelmina, my father made me legitimate, something I beg you not to forget again. You become tedious when you continually forget things. It quite makes me yawn. It quite sends me to sleep.”

“The earl doesn't like you. He married you only because he had to. He'll take countless mistresses and march them all in front of your impertinent nose.”

“Well, that isn't your concern, is it? After all, you will soon be gone, back to Baltimore, and I daresay I won't remember anything you said.”

The Duchess left Wilhelmina Wyndham standing there, for once without another word to say or to reshape.

She met with Badger, agreeing to the menu he suggested with just two additions. “Remember those Roehampton rolls you used to make, Badger? Some of those, please. And yes, perhaps some salt cod with parsnips?”

He grinned at that. “Sorry, Duchess, no fresh cod, not today. Perhaps Wednesday night. I'll have to send a lad to Stockton on Tees to the fish market. Now you're certain those American relatives will like the jugged hare?”

“Oh yes, they're not at all provincial. Do send the hare to the table with some red-currant jelly and string beans.”

He gave her a severe look. “Naturally. I have always used the old Lincolnshire recipe.”

In another thirty minutes, she was in her black riding habit with its epaulets, tight waist, and high black boots, the small black beaver riding hat with its short ostrich plumes set jauntily on her head. She went to the stable to ask for the sweet-mouthed bay mare, Birdie, she'd ridden at Lambkin's suggestion two days before.

Trevor was just mounting Clancy, laughing at the stallion's efforts to remove him from his broad back, patting his glossy neck, enjoying himself and the horse's performance thoroughly. He saw her and called out, “Come with me, Duchess. I would like to ride to Reeth, an errand for my mother.”

“That is a two-hour ride, Trevor.”

“Yes, I know. Sampson gave me excellent directions. Come with me, Duchess.”

“Just a moment, both of you.” It was Marcus striding toward them, flicking the riding crop against his thigh. “I feel like riding and Reeth is a fine place to ride to. You would doubtless get lost, Trevor, and God knows the Duchess couldn't find her way to the next dale without me to show her the path.”

Trevor arched his dark eyebrow a good half-inch. He said in such a pronounced drawl that she wondered how he could say everything he wanted to say before an hour passed, but he did, “Regardless of all the problems that would doubtless
plague us, Marcus, we could have managed. However, it appears that you are set upon being the third in our party. Come along, my dear fellow, before Clancy here becomes enamored with the Duchess's mare and we find ourselves in the soup.”

The three of them rode out of the stable grounds, through the park and down the long driveway lined with giant oak and lime trees. They turned their horses onto the small winding country road that led southwest. There was a good deal of silence, black silence. She breathed in the clean summer air, not caring that Marcus was in a snit. She even grinned when Marcus managed to insert Stanley between Birdie and Clancy. He was acting jealous, that was it. She was astounded and absurdly heartened. She smiled between Birdie's twitching ears, wondering how long he could contain himself.

It wasn't long.

“I don't like you going off with strange men, Duchess, without my permission.”

S
HE TURNED IN
her saddle. “Strange? You believe Trevor is strange, Marcus? Exotic? Peculiar? Surely you just think his name is strange, don't you?”

“You know very well what I mean, madam. Don't bandy words with me, particularly not in this mongrel's presence. It gives him too much satisfaction.”

“So I'm a mongrel, not just a strange man. That makes me feel more acceptable, cousin.”

Marcus realized in that moment that he was being an ass. He managed to hold his tongue to bland topics until they neared Richmond.

Richmond lay just four miles to the east of the small hillside village of Reeth. They stopped at the Black Bull Inn for a glass of cider.

“Since I am with you, Duchess,” the earl of Chase informed his wife as he closed his hands about her waist and lifted her from Birdie's back, “it will be acceptable for you to come into the taproom with us. If, however, you had accompanied this mangy hound by yourself, you would have had to wait out here in the stable yard so that everyone could see that you understood the decorum demanded by your station, and good sense.”

“He is a considerate husband,” Trevor said, grinning. “No, Marcus, keep your verbal darts to yourself. I'm thirsty.” He said to the Duchess, “Does he always concern himself with what people think of you?”

“No,” she said, “this is the first time. I rather like it. It makes him appear masterful.”

“Masterful? Ah, that has a fine ring to it, doesn't it? What do you think, Marcus?”

Whatever Marcus thought he kept to himself. He strode ahead of them into the inn.

To her surprise, once there were two ales in front of the men and a ladylike lemonade in front of her, they began to discuss the war between England and America. It was as if now they were the best of friends. They spoke as would two soldiers concerned with strategy and tactics, not with politics or principles. They were perfectly amiable to each other as long as she kept quiet, which she did, content to look at Marcus, to listen to his voice, crisp and certain.

As they rode toward the spacious village green of Reeth, she said to Trevor, “This is one of the more charming of the Swaledale villages. See all the black and white houses? Are they not unusual? And there are many pottery shops. Reeth is known for its fine pottery.”

He smiled at her enthusiasm and nodded. “The shop I must visit is on High Row.”

Marcus frowned, but held his tongue.

“High Row is just on the western side of the green. Ah, yes, lead is mined in the nearby hills,” she added, grinning at him now.

“More educational bits, Duchess?” Marcus said.

“I am pleased to be educated,” Trevor said. “There is propriety in education. Such education a husband can't possibly object to.”

“Well, let me see. If we had time, we would ride to Muker, it's the most rugged and remote of the Yorkshire dales. It's really quite savage. I picture the Scottish Highlands as looking something like Muker.”

“A charming name—Muker.”

She realized then that she was telling all this nonsense to Trevor just to enrage Marcus. She was surprised, somewhat disappointed actually, at his restraint. Had they been alone, by now he would be cursing, telling her to cease being a nitwit, any number of utterly Marcus-like things. She could
picture his scowl, hear him muttering. But his face was set and cold. He did look disgusted, but he was admirably silent. She swallowed and looked away for a moment. Had he really been jealous?

The day was warm, but not overly so. It looked to rain, but she hoped it would hold off until the afternoon.

“So,” she said to Trevor after they'd left their three horses in the grubby hands of a boy who'd handily snaggled the single pence Trevor had tossed to him, “it appears that Marcus has decided you're all right, despite your name.”

Trevor laughed, tossing a smile toward Marcus. “Evidently he so admires my ability to handle Clancy here that he is quite willing to overlook my regrettable name. Isn't that so, cousin?”

“Clancy,” Marcus said, “is an unaccountable stallion. There is no saying what sort of man he will tolerate.”

Trevor just laughed again.

“Marcus does say what he means.”

Trevor said, “It's a relief he's not one of Castlereagh's diplomats. England would surely be at war with the entire world.”

She laughed, a sweet sound that made Trevor Wyndham start. It made Marcus feel vicious. Trevor said to her, “Did he tell you about the Wyndham legacy?”

“No, what is that, pray tell?”

Marcus said, “There is no need to regale her with all that nonsense. The only reason you've said anything at all is because you believe it's just a story, a fantasy, naught more than a silly legend.”

“Very true, but it is interesting. Also, my mother believes it to be genuine. Listen now, Duchess, and learn about it.” He told her about the treasure buried sometime during the sixteenth century, probably somewhere during the time of Henry the Eighth's marriage to Anne Boleyn, that unconscionable harlot, and how his father had told them story upon story about it, speculating what it actually was, but knowing, just knowing that it was wealth beyond anything
imaginable, this mysterious treasure that was here, at Chase Park. It just had to be found. He told her that Aunt Gweneth had corresponded with his father and with his mother, after his father's death. “I told Marcus that my father couldn't really place it, but he did tell more stories about the time of Henry the Eighth than of any other. That is why we're here in Reeth. Mother believes that there is a clue to be found in this small Antiquarian shop on High Row owned by a Mr. Leonardo Burgess. My father and this Mr. Burgess were friends as boys and young men, and corresponded faithfully and enthusiastically over the years. Mr. Burgess kept an eye on things here, so my father said, and just last year, Burgess wrote to tell my mother that he'd discovered something. He seemed quite excited about his find. So, we are on a treasure hunt, Duchess. What do you think? Are you interested?”

“I think it's wonderful,” she said and laughed aloud again. She thought she heard Marcus mutter under his breath, “The bloody fool, the damnable bloody fool.”

“Surely though, Trevor, your mother can't want you telling all of us about the treasure.”

“It doesn't matter,” Trevor said, shrugging. “As I said, I don't believe it exists. I agree with Marcus entirely. It is a game to pass the time until I can pry my mother from here and take her and James and Ursula to London. But before I can do that, I must exhaust all possibilities. She must be convinced that there is no treasure and never was. I'm sure you've noticed that her mind is of a tenacious bent.”

“But if there is such a thing and if we find it, why then, it would belong to Marcus. Surely your mother realizes that.”

“That is why she wants to box my ears for spilling the treasure story. If she thought I had the two of you with me today, off on this most sacred of quests, she'd doubtless want to stick a knife in my throat. I suppose she planned to dig up the treasure beneath a full moon at midnight, pile it into a coach, and escape without you, Marcus, being any the wiser.”

“I'll tell her as soon as we return,” Marcus said. “A knife in your throat isn't a bad thought.”

“Oh no, he won't, Trevor, don't worry. We'll stay mum. Your mother will never know that we've dipped our feet into her treasure hunt. And Ursula? What does she think about all this?”

Trevor shot her an odd look. “Ursula is a girl.”

“This is incontestable. What does she think about the treasure?”

“I don't know.”

“Girls do have brains, you know, Trevor, and imaginations. Perhaps they even have talents about which men have no idea.”

“Yes,” he said, his voice suddenly clipped.

“The Duchess is right. Girls have many things—talents included—that continually surprise men,” Marcus said, his eye suddenly caught by a quite lovely young girl who was openly eyeing both him and Trevor. “That little lass over there, why she could be naught but a flirt, or she could willingly want to have a man pleasure her.”

The Duchess clamped her mouth shut.

Trevor frowned at Marcus.

They walked in silence to High Row.

As it turned out, Mr. Leonardo Burgess was quite a surprise to all three of them.

Once they'd identified themselves, Mr. Burgess ushered them quickly into the dusty shop, pulled the curtains over the windows, and drew them back into the deep shadows.

“You'll not believe this,” he said, shaking Trevor's hand with fervent enthusiasm.

“Probably not,” Trevor said, then smiled, robbing his words of offense.

Mr. Leonardo Burgess was a bull of a man, completely bald, but sported a huge black mustache that he liberally waxed. He grinned as he spoke, showing crossed front teeth.

“I'm glad you've arrived, Mr. Wyndham. And you, my lord. I knew your uncle, but I've yet to meet your lovely
wife. My pleasure, your ladyship. Very nice, very nice. Now, Mr. Wyndham, do allow me to tell you how sorry I was to hear of your father's death from dear Mrs. Wyndham.”

Trevor's father had died five years before, but he nodded gravely to Mr. Burgess. “Thank you, sir. Now, I understand that you have come across something that will help us locate the Wyndham treasure?”

Mr. Burgess drew nearer and lowered his voice to a near whisper. “Oh aye, lad, I'm not stupid. I know you believe this is all twaddle, all fevered imaginings on your father's part and now on your mother's part. The old earl never did anything but laugh contemptuously about it. But do I look like a man who would suffer twaddle? There's still a cast of uncertainty in your eyes. You believe me a meandering old fool. Ah, no matter. Just wait until you see this.” He turned on his heel and sped as fast as his impressive bulk would allow through a curtained-off entrance to a back room. He returned shortly, cradling in his arms a very large book that looked to be ancient. The cover was an illumination of a thick cross with a beautiful rope of pearls looped around it. The cross was red, the pearls a deep gray. The red ink was faded and peeling, but still vibrant. It was old, so very old.

“Come here, away from the light. The pages are so fragile I fear they'll split and crumble. Now, look here, all of you.”

Mr. Burgess gently laid the book on top of a counter. The Duchess breathed in the stale dust raised by the turning of each thick page. The pages of the huge tome were done in beautifully executed script, some in a deep black, others in royal blue, yet others in that same brilliant red as the red cross on the outside of the tome. There were more pictures—of animals grazing in fields with piles of strange rock formations in the background, of priests blessing kneeling men and women in the square of a town, of the inside of a small Norman chapel that surely looked familiar.
Finally, there were sketches of a magnificent abbey, drawn in stark black against a background of fierce heavy black clouds. Oddly, the next pages were of its lush grounds.

“I recognize this abbey,” Marcus said, lightly tracing a fingertip over the outline of the building.

“Aye, I do myself, my lord. It is the Saint Swale Abbey, once one of the richest monasteries in all of northern England.”

“Its ruins lie very near Chase Park,” Marcus added.

“So that is Saint Swale,” the Duchess said. “As children, Fanny, Antonia, and I would track each other like the wild Indians in America through the ruins.”

“Aye, my lady. Listen now, Cromwell, that miserable jackal, put it toward the top of his list.”

“Cromwell?” Trevor said. “I thought Cromwell was the fellow who led the anti-Royalist Roundheads and beheaded King Charles I back in the middle of the seventeenth century.”

“Aye, Oliver Cromwell was the great-grandson of this Cromwell's nephew. Betrayal, greed, and power mongering flow in all their veins, curse the buggers, begging your pardon, my lady. The king—Henry the Eighth named Cromwell his vice-regent—made him more powerful than any man should ever be.”

“So it was in Henry the Eighth's time. What is this about a list?” Trevor asked.

“The king was bankrupt. The easiest way to get all the wealth he wanted was to take the monasteries—they owed allegiance to the pope, after all—and not to Henry who was the head of the Church of England. Cromwell made up a list, beginning with the wealthiest of the monasteries. It was called the time of the dissolution, beginning way back in 1535 and lasting for three years.”

“I begin to see where the legend of the treasure derives,” Marcus said, stroking his fingertips over his jaw. “Many of the monasteries had great wealth, not only in land and buildings and holdings, but in jewels and gold collected over the
centuries. And their religious artifacts were priceless even then—gold crosses encrusted with precious gems and the like. They knew Cromwell's men were coming and thus they hid as much treasure as they could.”

“Exactly, my lord, exactly.” Mr. Burgess beamed with approval on Marcus, until Marcus added, “I would have thought, however, that instead of burying all the loot, the monks would have taken it with them when they fled.”