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“She was not married, but that is not why I have come”.
“Why, then?”
Hester saw a flash of temper in the Dark Duke’s eyes, yet he remained perfectly motionless, which was not what she would have expected from his passionate reputation. “I have every right to come home,” he said evenly.
“I’m not surprised you had to leave London. I suppose there was another duel.”
“Suppose what you like, Your Grace,” he replied, using the most formal of addresses. “I am going to trouble you only a little while. Where is Elliot?”
“Mercifully, still in France.”
“Ah. When do you expect him home?”
“Any day, Adrian, any day. I must say, I am delighted he is still abroad. He does not need to be tainted by another scandal involving you! Do you never think of us? Do you never think of your brother? No, don’t trouble to answer! It is perfectly obvious! You only think of yourself!” The duchess glared at him and Hester shifted uncomfortably, wishing she was not present.
The duke rose slowly. “If you will excuse me, I shall retire to my room.”
“I have not finished with you! I want to know what you have done now!”
The Dark Duke looked at the duchess, and Hester detected more than slight scorn in his black eyes. “As much as I am convinced your interest in knowing the details of the latest scandal is genuine, I am finished with you, Your Grace. My opponent was not the only one who was injured, and unless you wish me to get blood all over the carpet—” both women gasped, but the duke remained coolly calm “—you will not detain me. Lady Hester, I give you good day. Your Grace, my compliments.”
“Would you like me to call for a footman?” Hester asked, hurrying past him toward the door.
“Hester!” the duchess called out. “I need you.”
Adrian watched with slight amusement as his stepmother’s latest companion—or slave, as he always thought of these unfortunate creatures—hesitated. Then, to his very great surprise, Lady Hester did not immediately return to the duchess’s side. Instead, with a determined expression manifested by a slight downturn of her full lips, she said, “If you will excuse me. Your Grace, I will be but a moment,” and left the room without waiting for an answer.
Adrian would have smiled with satisfaction to see his stepmother disobeyed, except that he knew such a reaction from him would only inflame his stepmother’s anger and make things more difficult for Lady Hester.
Why would a young woman of wealth and privilege waste her days tending to the duchess? he wondered. She must have more opportunities than that, even if she wasn’t a beauty.
Pimblett. He knew that name, and recalled the daughters, although not a Hester. Helena Pimblett was reckoned a great beauty. He had seen her once at the theater, and thought her a vain, stuck-up creature. It was said by men of his acquaintance who could be expected to know such things that the younger sister was a beauty, too. However, he had never seen or heard of another sister, and it was fairly obvious why, for this young woman could never attract much notice in London.
Still, there was a certain wholesome prettiness to her. Her eyes were the friendly blue of cornflowers, fringed by lashes of soft brown that matched her chestnut hair drawn into a plain and rather severe knot of a bun. Her complexion was excellent and he had little doubt that she had been raised in the country, for her skin had the satiny texture of a country-bred lady. There was a delicacy to her features that he found interesting, and she had a nose that no woman need be ashamed of. She was simply and plainly gowned with good taste, and her figure was more than acceptable.
Judging by her response to the duchess, she must also be a rather uncommon young woman. He would not have said there was a young lady in all of England who would not be intimidated by his stepmother, yet apparently there was and, he realized with pleasure, she was in the duchess’s company.
Lady Hester appeared in the doorway, followed by Jenkins and two footmen. By now Adrian’s wound was aching badly and he could feel the blood seeping through the bandage. Nevertheless, he did not feel quite so decrepit as to need the assistance of three grown men.
“I took the liberty of sending for the surgeon to tend to the duke, as well as Dr. Woadly,” Lady Hester said in a voice as friendly and pleasant as her countenance. She spoke to the duchess before looking at him, whereupon she regarded him steadily, as if he were a specimen in a bottle.
He returned the scrutiny, more out of curiosity than anything else, and then decided to conduct his own experiment upon this unusual woman. He smiled at her with all the charm he could muster. “Thank you, Lady Hester.”
She did not blush or look away with false modesty or stare at him with impertinent curiosity. She simply resumed her seat.
Her reaction, or nonreaction, didn’t mean anything, Adrian told himself. Why should it, when she was nothing to look at? And it could be that, sick and pale from the loss of blood, he was not at his best. Yes, that had to explain why a woman of her age would not respond to his charm.
He decided to ignore her, and limped toward the door. “Jenkins, if I may lean upon your arm, you may dismiss the footmen. Send the surgeon to my room as soon as he arrives.”
“Lady Hester!” the duchess said. “Please fetch the smelling salts.”
Without so much as a glance Adrian’s way as he left the room, the young lady hurried to his stepmother’s side.
“I must indeed look sick,” Adrian muttered as he made his way toward the stairs, keeping most of his weight off the elderly butler, using Jenkins only for balance.
“Look at what, Your Grace?” Jenkins asked.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Yes, you did. Your Grace” Jenkins corrected. “You said, ’Look at it.”
“I meant my father’s portrait. I think it needs to be cleaned.”
They paused and surveyed the portrait of the late fifth Duke of Barroughby—in his full regalia for the House of Lords—which was hung on the landing. Beside it was a smaller portrait of Adrian’s mother.
“Ah, those were good days,” Jenkins said with a sigh. “I was younger then.”
“So were we all,” the sixth Duke of Barroughby noted as he passed them by.
“Don’t look so glum, John,” Adrian chastised the surgeon, who was applying a fresh bandage to the wound in his leg. “I’ve had worse.”
“What caused it?” John Mapleton asked. The stout man puffed a little from the exertion of bending over Adrian’s elevated leg. “Not a sword.”
“Pistols at twenty paces.”
“Ah!”
“It bled terribly, but no lasting damage, the London surgeon said.”
“Lucky for you.” Mapleton straightened with a grunt. “Lucky again. One of these days you’re not going to be lucky. You’re going to be dead.”
“I didn’t have very much to fear from my opponent. I was far more concerned that his shot not hit my second or some innocent bystander.”
“Huh.” Mapleton began repacking his black bag. “What was the cause? A woman?”
“Yes.” Adrian lifted his foot and placed it gingerly on the thick carpet. On the table beside the brocade chair was a basin full of bloodied water and a cloth the surgeon had used to clean the reopened wound, items that seemed distinctly out of place in the ornately decorated room with its expensive wallpaper, comfortable brocade chairs, delicate tables, large canopied bed, damask draperies on the tall, narrow windows and chinoiserie armoire.
Mapleton gave him a shrewd look. “Yours or Elliot’s?”
Adrian didn’t answer.
Mapleton frowned and went back to his task. “Elliot’s, then. I should have known. The young fool ran off to hide in Europe and you took the blame. Again.”
“All has been taken care of, so I would prefer to let the matter drop.” Adrian winced as he stood and tried to put some weight on his leg.
“I would rest some more, Your Grace, if I were you. Tell me, did it never occur to you to take a coach here?”
“Drake needed the exercise, and after London, I wanted the air.”
The deep, measured tones of Dr. Woadly were heard as he passed Adrian’s door. “I fear my presence has sickened my stepmother,” he noted sardonically.
“You could send her to the Dower House.”
Adrian slowly resumed his seat. “And have her tell everyone I turned her out?”
“She has no right to Barroughby Hall,” Mapleton said. “Your father left everything to you.”
“So he did.” Adrian reached into his vest for a cheroot. “I suppose, given my reputation, one more blemish shouldn’t matter.” He struck a match. “Don’t imagine I haven’t given it some thought. Still, my father wanted her to remain here. Along with Jenkins.”
“Your father has been dead these ten years.”
Adrian raised one dark eyebrow, well aware that Mapleton would never see eye-to-eye with him on certain things. “I was not aware there was a time limit on promises made to a dying parent.”
“There should be!” Mapleton said forcefully.
“This is such an unpleasant topic, John,” Adrian said as the smoke from his cheroot curled toward the high ceiling. “Sit down and have a drink with me.”
Mapleton thought a moment, then nodded his head. “If you let me get it.”
“Only too happy not to have to stir a hair,” Adrian replied lightly.
Mapleton went to another small table that held a decanter and some crystal glasses. He poured two drinks and handed one to Adrian before sitting beside him. “I really think you should consider retiring Jenkins. Give him a cottage and a pension. He’s getting too old for his duties, and his hearing…” Mapleton left off suggestively.
“I know. He’s worse every time I come. I’ve made certain he has only the basics to attend to, for the one time I said something about his age, I thought he was going to cry.” Adrian drew on his cheroot and let the smoke out gradually. “You can’t imagine a more worrisome sight than old Jenkins with a tear in his eye.”
“Must you joke about everything, my lord?”
Adrian gazed at the surgeon with a thoughtful expression. “It helps,” he said truthfully.
“I’m surprised the duchess hasn’t insisted he go,” Mapleton said after a short silence. “She doesn’t strike me as having the patience to put up with his mistakes.”
“Ah, now there I can offer an explanation,” Adrian replied, happy to be diverted from a serious subject like promises made on his father’s deathbed. “Jenkins was in his middle years when the duchess married my father. Now, if Jenkins is getting too old to do his job, well, how old is the duchess, then?”
Mapleton frowned. “You mean, if she admits that Jenkins has to stop working, she’s admitting she’s getting old herself.”
“Exactly!”
“And I suppose I could extrapolate that she also feels by having a young woman who is not noticeably attractive for a companion, she maintains her position as the most beautiful woman in the household.”
“One could say that,” Adrian agreed, for such an explanation might also illustrate why the duchess didn’t get angry over Lady Hester’s slight defiance. “How long has Lady Hester been here?”
“About four months.”
“Helpful, I take it?”
“I believe Dr. Woadly would say so.”
“Ah. Fewer summonses from Barroughby Hall?”
“So I understand.”
“We’ve made a very good guess as to why she might suit my stepmother, but why do you think Lady Hester would stay here?”
“I’m sure I have no idea,” Mapleton answered. “No alternatives, perhaps.”
“What of her parents? Have they died?”
“Oh, they’re alive. I understand they’ve gone to Europe for an extended period. Lord Pimblett apparently feels it would be better for his gout, or so Lady Hester said. She asked me some questions about the complaint. A most intelligent, compassionate young woman.”
“Which again begs the question, why would she shut herself up here with my esteemed stepmother?”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“Perhaps I will.”
Mapleton’s brow furrowed and Adrian sighed with genuine dismay. “Oh, not you, too. I assure you, she will be quite safe from the clutches of the Dark Duke.”
Mapleton chuckled, then finished his drink and rose. “I know it. Now I really must be on my way. Take care of that leg. No riding for the next few days.”
Adrian nodded absently. “I wonder how long she’ll stay,” he mused aloud.
“Lady Hester?”
The duke nodded.
“Why should she leave, after putting up with the duchess for so long already?” Mapleton asked.
“Because while you and I both know she has nothing to fear from me, Lady Hester may feel otherwise.”
Chapter Two (#ulink_9146c709-d8b4-579e-8eaf-fd6225854bbf)
Later that evening Hester tried to pay attention to the card game she was playing with the duchess and not to let her eyes stray toward the drawing room door.
Indeed, there was no reason she should keep doing so. She couldn’t expect anyone to walk into the room, except a servant, for the Duke of Barroughby had not come down to dinner. It was because of his injury, so Jenkins said, after also informing them that Mr. Ma-pleton did not think it a particularly serious one.
She also suspected, however, that the duke was reluctant to listen to his stepmother continue to denounce him to his face, a quite understandable reason.
“So, Lady Hester, you have never seen my stepson before?” the duchess asked. She was currently winning the game of piquet, which Hester thought explained her somewhat mollified tone, and the duchess’s good humor was ample recompense for playing less than honestly.
“No, Your Grace.”
“I daresay you moved in better circles in London society.”
“I did not move much in any circle, Your Grace,” Hester replied.
“Why not?” the duchess demanded. “Surely your father’s rank made your welcome assured.”
Hester tried not to squirm with discomfort, because the duchess would surely chastise her for wiggling. “I preferred to remain at home.”
