Page 10 of Hazardous to a Duke’s Heart (Lords of Hazard #1)

I t was nearly eight when Tory hurried from the Falconridge mansion, heading for the cottage where she spent as much time as possible. She still could hardly believe she was to have a full wardrobe of lovely gowns, with shoes, reticules, bonnets, and jewelry to match.

Well, some of the latter would be hers. Some would be borrowed from Chloe. But not the shoes. Tory’s feet were far too small for that.

Still, the idea of having Jon see her in one of those new, gorgeous gowns sent a dart of excitement through her. She was woman enough to want to impress him. Especially after their kisses.

No, she wouldn’t think of those right now, or Mrs. Gully would surely read her feelings from her face.

It wasn’t long before she was approaching her dear home. The cottage might not be in the finest part of town, although Falcon House was a mere mile away, but the area was respectable, full of tradesmen and merchants and their families. Besides, everyone was aware of her position with the Duchess of Falconridge and her daughter, so they treated her with respect.

And if a ruffian did happen to accost her, one of the men at the nearby coffeehouse invariably sent him packing. It rarely happened, thankfully, but she was grateful to the fellows who treated her like one of their own and looked out for her during her comings and goings.

She opened the cottage door and raced inside, grateful to see Mrs. Gully waiting patiently. It was Mrs. Gully’s night off, too, after all.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” Tory took off her coat and hung it on the coat rack. Reluctant to reveal she was having a partial Season, with a full new wardrobe and everything, Tory decided not to mention it at all. Mrs. Gully would find it highly suspicious. “The duchess talked my ear off. I thought I would never be allowed to leave.”

“Do tell,” Mrs. Gully said with a smile as she kneaded bread. “What’s Her Grace doing this week?”

“Well,” Tory said, “with the duke home, she’s beside herself.”

Mrs. Gully paused in her kneading. “I heard His Nibs finally arrived. What’s he like? Is he as full of hisself as his half brothers was?”

“I’m not sure yet. Sometimes he is. But sometimes he can be quite friendly.” When he was kissing her especially. “Unless he’s talking about his imprisonment in France. Then he appears more sad than anything, I suppose you’d say. He doesn’t seem to have had a good time of it there. Also, he could use some of that excellent bread you’re planning to bake in the morning.”

“A thin one, is he?” Mrs. Gully said.

“Not by choice, I don’t think. But I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow before I leave. I know you’re chafing to get home to your new husband tonight, so you can go see the reenactment of the Battle of Trafalgar in Hyde Park.”

“Pish, George can wait. We still have time.”

George Gully was Mrs. Gully’s third husband. She’d buried two before. And she’d been with the Morris family through all three marriages. Tory didn’t know what she’d do without her.

“Do y’know what my daft husband said to me the other day?” Mrs. Gully went on. “He thinks we should get ourselves a cow. And who does he think would milk it? I ain’t touchin’ any cow teats, that’s for sure. I’ll buy milk like everybody else. A cow, for pity’s sake.” She shook her head as she placed the ball of dough into a pan and put it in a cool spot to rise slowly overnight. “Where would we even keep it? And who’s goin’ to clean up after it?”

“It doesn’t sound terribly practical,” Tory ventured.

“No, indeed.”

“I want a cow,” a voice came from the doorway. “To ride.”

“There’s my dear boy!” Tory said, as her brother, Cyril, barreled toward her and threw one arm about her waist while clutching the remnant of his favorite old blanket in the other. He was already tall enough that his forehead touched her chin.

“The lad was so restless today,” Mrs. Gully murmured. “I could hardly get him to take his bath.”

The eleven-year-old had the mind of a boy of five, which sometimes made rearing him difficult. Mrs. Gully always said he was too big for his brain, but she was still clearly as fond of him as Tory was.

“I was waiting for you, Sissy!” Cyril looked up at her, his blue eyes alight with his usual exuberance. “I caught a butterfly. Want to see?”

She ruffled his blond curls. “Of course.”

Cyril ran into his bedroom—he never walked anywhere—and came back without the blanket and with a glass jar in both hands. He pointed to the piece of cheesecloth tied over the top with a string. “To help it breathe. Like me!”

The irony didn’t escape her. Cyril’s umbilical cord had been wrapped around his neck at birth, and the midwife had had a devil of a time undoing it. Since he caught his first breath almost at once afterward, they’d thought—hoped—all was well. But as he’d grown, it had become clear all wasn’t. By then, Mama had died, leaving Tory with Cyril and no father.

None of them had written to Papa about Cyril, wanting to wait until his return. Now she wished she had informed her father. Perhaps he could have held on longer if he’d known he had a son at last.

Then again, with mail not getting to its destination, he wouldn’t have received the letter anyway. Besides, if he’d known about Cyril’s difficulties . . .

“Can I keep the butterfly?” Cyril asked, his expression hopeful.

“He won’t live for long in a jar, sweetie. Tomorrow, you must let him go, so he can eat nectar from the flowers.”

“I want to take him to school,” he said plaintively.

She sighed. “You know you can’t go to school.”

“Because I’m stupid,” he muttered.

Her heart twisted in her chest. “Don’t say that!” She took his head in hers and looked deep into his soulful eyes. “You are not stupid. Didn’t you figure out how to catch the butterfly? And keep him alive?”

He thrust out his bottom lip. “Mrs. Gully helped me.”

“As well she should, since she and I are your teachers. You probably would have figured it out on your own.”

He brightened a little. “Prob’ly.” His eyes filled with tears. “Then why can’t I go to school? With the other boys?”

She swallowed hard. “Oh, sweetie. Perhaps one day, when you’re older.”

But she knew she could never send him. Children were cruel to those they didn’t understand. And an eleven-year-old who acted like a five-year-old would be treated badly indeed.

Here in her neighborhood, comprised of older folks whose children were grown, people were generally kind to Cyril. And if their grandchildren who visited sometimes eyed him askance, they had the good manners not to say anything.

But the one time she’d brought him to the market closer to town, the children had made fun of him, mocking him for the bedraggled baby blanket he carried everywhere and for his wide-eyed wonder at the animals. Worse yet, they’d called him “stupid,” which clearly had made quite an impression on him.

Even that hadn’t changed Cyril’s mind about wanting friends and going to school. It pained her that she couldn’t give him that.

“Now,” she said, forcing a smile to her lips, “it’s getting dark, so let’s go put you into bed. That way you’ll be well rested to play with your butterfly in the garden tomorrow.” She tickled him under his chin, and he giggled, then took her hand.

She soon had him situated in the trundle bed in her mother’s old bedchamber. Sleepily, he clutched his blanket remnant tight while she gave him a goodnight kiss. Then she returned to the kitchen.

Mrs. Gully still stood in there, her hands on her hips.

“You didn’t need to wait for me,” Tory said.

“Them folks at your solicitor’s sent you another letter about the lease.” Mrs. Gully’s forehead wrinkled with worry as she handed it to Tory. “Have you thought any more on what you’ll do when it runs out?”

Tory still held out hope for her school, but it couldn’t be located here—the cottage wasn’t large enough and was much too dear for the amount of space. Besides, she had her eye on a set of rooms near the Royal Academy. It had once been the lodgings of a society of artists—all men, of course—that had foundered for lack of funds.

The place had loads of light, several rooms big enough for classes, and even a small apartment where she and Cyril could live. It was rather dear, too, but if she could convince the duke to give her the money Papa had left to her . . .

“I shall go over to the solicitor’s later this week and see if I can’t buy us a bit more time until the will is settled,” she said as she walked into their small parlor. “According to His Grace, Papa left me an inheritance.”

“He did, did he?” Mrs. Gully asked as she followed Tory, clearly suspicious. “Then how come we ain’t never heard of it?”

Tory explained about the duke’s and her father’s odd imprisonment, but even as she did, she had more questions. There were so many gaps in the duke’s story, so many matters she still didn’t understand. During their lessons, she should see if she couldn’t get some of those questions answered.

With a shake of her head, Mrs. Gully wiped her hands on her apron. “I still say you’re better off finding a husband. Now, the gentleman my George works for has a son a few years older than you. He’s handsome and well-off, and he ain’t married. You could do worse.”

She could do better, too. Mrs. Gully was as bad as the duke, thinking that a husband would solve everything. “And what would I do with Cyril, mind you?”

That brought a pained look to her servant’s face. “You can’t keep him with you forever, luv. What will you do when he’s taller than us? How will you keep feeding him? He already eats more than you and me put together.”

Tory thrust out her chin. “I have plans in the works.”

“That school you want to start.” Glancing heavenward, Mrs. Gully held her hands together in a gesture of prayer. “Lord only knows how that would go. Won’t pay as much as you think. You have to start thinkin’ where to put the lad.”

“I am not sending him to one of those awful places where they chain people to the beds and half the inhabitants are mad!”

“I ain’t saying to do that, dearie,” Mrs. Gully protested. “But there’s people as might take him in if he can earn his keep. Nice people in the country. I’d take him myself if not for George’s mother.” Mrs. Gully made a face. “That woman could strip the hide off a horse with her tongue. But my George loves her and won’t hear of sending her away, so there ain’t much I can do about it.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to take Cyril, anyway. You have enough to deal with.” Suppressing a sigh, Tory sat down on the nearby sofa. “I don’t want anyone to take him.”

“But ain’t too many men who’ll marry a woman with a half-wit . . . a boy like Cyril in tow.”

“How well I know,” Tory said bitterly. It was why she would never marry. She couldn’t bear to think of Cyril without her. She had this irrational fear that if she weren’t around to oversee his care, he’d wither away and die.

As it was, she hated she couldn’t spend more time with him. She and Mama had been his constant companions until her mother’s death the year after the duchess’s husband had died.

Back then, there’d been little communication between the two families. After Mama’s death, however, Tory had found herself stuck firmly between a rock and a hard place. So she’d accepted the duchess’s kind offer to make her Chloe’s governess and had kept Cyril secret from the Falconridge family ever since.

Partly, it was just easier to keep their worlds apart. Cyril wouldn’t be wounded if the family proved hateful to him—as the previous duke and his brother would surely have been—and she wouldn’t be wounded if they professed pity for her. But things were messy now, with the new duke’s arrival and the deaths of his half brothers and the lease coming due . . . and so many other complications.

She rubbed her temples. She had to find a way out for her brother. Because if children were already cruel to him, she could only imagine how any man who courted her would treat him.

In her experience, men weren’t tolerant of people like Cyril. They weren’t even tolerant of fully grown females who asserted themselves or made demands—which was evidenced by how the duke had regarded her desire to start a school. So, Lord only knew how a husband would treat a boy who didn’t fit into his stringent rules about how the world should work. He’d have Cyril packed off somewhere before she could blink. Worse yet, a husband would have the right to do so.

She refused to risk exposing Cyril to that. Better to keep him safe here where he could be happy. Even if it meant she stayed a maiden the rest of her life.