Page 35 of A Tale of Two Dukes

Richard rode round to the stables and left his exhausted, muddy horse with the surprised grooms there.

He only had a small bag that he’d carried strapped to the saddle; he was used to travelling light, and he had no intention of spending the night here.

He’d find an inn later, not too close to Winterflood so they wouldn’t recognise him as local innkeepers might.

He’d been in France, often in perilous circumstances, for most of the past six months and he was dog-tired – so tired, in fact, that he had to consciously remind himself to speak English to the sleepy boy who took his mount and promised to look after it.

The words of thanks felt awkward on his tongue after so long away.

There was no danger here – or danger of a completely different kind from what he’d become accustomed to since the peace treaty had been signed.

He’d returned to his London lodging yesterday and found a letter from Edward waiting for him.

Before this, they hadn’t had any communication at all since he’d left here in February.

This wasn’t normal – they usually exchanged letters in a casual but frequent manner, despite the interruptions that inevitably came when he was abroad for long periods.

He didn’t imagine for a moment that the Duke had taken offence at his abrupt departure; it seemed more likely that Winterflood had been reluctant to open a correspondence that might lead to Richard upbraiding him in frank terms for his appalling behaviour.

It was so much safer for him to say nothing and see what happened.

And then when it became apparent that Viola was with child, probably the Duke had forgotten about his young cousin altogether, all his attention focused on the extraordinary fact that he just might be about to get his precious heir at last. Both Richard and Viola were merely means to an end and nothing else.

And Edward had got all he’d wanted and more.

Not just one heir, but two. Two strong, healthy boys, born a couple of weeks ago.

Winterflood had written to tell his cousin of it.

His joy and incredulity rose from the page in an almost palpable fashion, and Richard couldn’t be sure – not entirely sure – that in his delirium, the Duke even remembered his own crucial part in this triumph.

Perhaps he did; perhaps this brief note was a tacit acknowledgment that Richard might want to know that Viola was well.

Might care about her. But he didn’t think so.

He thought Edward was writing such triumphant letters to almost everyone he’d ever met in his life.

In other circumstances, he’d have found the older man’s hubris pardonable, even endearing, after so many anxious, disappointed years. Now he didn’t.

At any rate, he had used it as an excuse. He had not been invited this time, but he had come. He needed to see her for himself. And see the boys, just once.

He didn’t require anyone to show him into the great house, since he’d been a regular and welcome visitor here once.

He made his way through from the stables, and then stood, hesitating, in the shadowy, marble hall.

It was late and very quiet – he’d timed his arrival so that he didn’t precipitate a dinner-table scene that would be awkward and unpleasant for Viola.

At this time of the evening, he was almost positive that she wouldn’t be downstairs, sitting chatting cosily with Edward.

They were not that sort of couple, and she’d just recently given birth.

And he didn’t want to see his cousin at all, but he supposed he must speak to him, however briefly, not sneak about like a thief.

He headed for the library. Winterflood was there alone, in his accustomed chair by the fire.

He looked ten years younger than he had in February, but the complex mixture of emotions that raced across his face when he saw Richard did him no favours.

Panic left the most abiding impression – that, and self-interest.

‘I haven’t come to see you,’ Mr Armstrong told him.

‘And don’t worry, I haven’t come to take her away either – not that you’d care for that – nor take the boys from you.

You have everything you want, and much that you don’t deserve or appreciate.

But you owe me this one brief visit. After this, I promise you I won’t trouble you again. ’

Edward had risen to his feet. ‘Richard, my dear boy…’ he murmured helplessly, as if anything he could say could mend matters at this late date.

‘I don’t have anything else to say to you, and I don’t want to hear anything you might have to say to me.

You cannot possibly apologise, because you would not mean a word of it.

And I certainly won’t discuss Viola with you.

I’m going up to see her now. Then I’ll leave.

If I thought it would do any good, I’d tell you that you should treat her better.

But I tried that before and it was to no avail, so wrapped up as you were in your own concerns.

I grew up thinking you were a good man, and perhaps you were once, but your grief has made you selfish and cruel.

People aren’t pawns, Edward. Even a duke should know that. ’

Richard shut the door behind him with a solid clunk and made his way slowly up the staircase. He’d never been to Viola’s bedchamber, but he knew where it was. It had been his cousin Elizabeth’s room once.

It occurred to him belatedly now that her mother was probably staying at Winterflood and could easily be with her, or some other female relative, and that she might be surrounded by nursemaids too, and therefore his sudden abrupt appearance at this hour could cause a fearful bustle and – when they thought about its implications – a scandal.

He should have been much more careful, rather than creeping in at night.

His own feelings had made him inconsiderate, reckless, which was ironic after his self-righteous accusation to Edward.

But she was alone.