Page 8 of His Extraordinary Duchess

Chapter Eight

O h, but Sir Winfred could harp on her last string! Claudia would have liked nothing better than to refuse his high-handed, patronizing offer, but she couldn’t. As a member of the Darling family, however distant, Sir Winfred had nearly as much right to stay in the manor as she, Georgie, and Sophia did.

“How generous,” Ben was saying. “I imagine the staff will need to be informed to make up a room for you.”

Now he was telling her how to perform her duties? Claudia caught his eye, and he tipped his head toward the doorway. Her indignation evaporated. The dear man was giving her an excuse to escape!

She rose, forcing them both to their feet as propriety demanded. “An excellent notion, Mr. Warden. Allow me to make the arrangements.”

She could as easily have rung the sprung bell. Joseph had installed the bell system in all the public rooms, family bedchambers, and kitchen shortly before his death, but Sir Winfred did not question her as she swept from the room. Indeed, she heard Ben engaging him in conversation as if to cover the fact that she was fleeing.

She alerted the first footman she found to relay the instructions to Mr. Kinsle.

“Of course, Your Grace,” he said with a bow. “And Miss Collier brought the mail from the village, if you’d care to look.”

She wasn’t sure why Violette had been tasked with something that was usually the footman’s purview, but she paused long enough beside the silver salver on the front entry hall table to recognize the elegant hand on the top letter. Her spirits plummeted further. Snatching up the missive, she moved with as much dignity as she could to her bedchamber, where at least she might be assured of some privacy.

Perched on the velvet-upholstered armchair near the hearth, she turned the letter over in her hands. It would not be good news. She could count on one hand the number of times her mother had written her about anything pleasant.

Claudia drew in a breath and broke the seal.

Dearest , her mother had written, I hope that all is well with you so far away on your lonely estate.

Lonely. Well, there were moments when she felt all alone in her duties, but she could count on Georgie and Sophia to keep her company. But instead of their smiling faces, the countenance that came to mind was Ben’s. She shook off the thought.

Your father and I are both well , her mother continued, although I have distressing news about your brother, which is why I take up pen to write .

And here it came. Claudia sighed and kept reading.

He finds himself in debt, I fear, through no fault of his own. It’s only a little this time . Five hundred pounds would likely see Auggie’s debts discharged. He simply had a bad run at Hazard.

A bad run at cards. After a bad run betting on the horses. And then there had been the opera singer who seemed to prefer to sing about her brother’s unsavory dealings unless she was properly compensated. As a manager of one of the most prestigious banks in London, her father could not be associated with such scandals. Perhaps Auggie should stop enacting them instead of demanding that Claudia pay the price!

The next bit was even worse.

Your father and I are agreed that it is time you return to London. You still have many years ahead of you to spend in marriage. Lord Carstairs is apparently looking for a second wife after the sad passing of his first. He should have the funds to keep you properly.

The parchment crumpled in her fist. To keep them properly, her mother meant. Father and Mother loved to entertain lavishly, dress in the latest styles, and eat the finest foods. Father’s reputation demanded it, they claimed. A shame his finances had never kept pace.

But to marry again, simply to keep them in comfort? Was she such an undutiful daughter that she shuddered at the thought? Thanks to Joseph, Claudia need never want. But that didn’t mean she was obliged to pay for everything, did it?

The room felt too small, the air suffocating. She tossed the letter into the grate and swept out into the corridor, hurrying toward the portrait gallery and the opportunity to calm the turmoil inside her.

She came around the corner into the long gallery and pulled up short. There, on the bench before Joseph’s portrait, sat a boy. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again. He still sat there, gaze on the pad of paper before him. He had blond hair, cut to curl about his ears, and he wore the coat and breeches of a gentleman for all he could not have been more than ten years of age. The clothes appeared to be well worn, but not of an earlier century. This was no specter, not that she’d ever believed in such things.

She made herself approach. “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” he replied, fingers moving a stick of charcoal over the paper.

She sank onto the bench beside him and dared to reach out a hand. It settled on a thin shoulder. A hallucination might be audible, she supposed, but surely not tactile.

“What are you drawing?” she asked.

He kept his head down. “The gentleman. I like the way he smiles.”

Claudia glanced up at Joseph’s portrait. He didn’t seem to be smiling, but then none of them did. A chill went through her. “Have you seen him smile?”

“No,” he admitted. “I’ve never met him. But I think he could, if he wanted. See?”

She tilted her head to gaze at the charcoal sketch. Joseph’s head and shoulders were visible, and he was indeed smiling, that indulgent look he’d often given to Freddie.

“You’ve caught his very likeness,” she murmured, throat tightening. “He used to smile that way, when he was very pleased about something his son had done.”

He nodded as if satisfied.

“Have you drawn many people?” she asked.

“I draw all the time,” he told the page. She noticed a number of pages curled away from the current one. “Would you like to see?”

“Very much.”

He flipped back a few pages. “This is my mother.”

The woman had lighter hair, if the strokes of his charcoal were to be believed, and it waved about a lovely face.

“She doesn’t smile?” Claudia asked.

“Not now,” he said. “I think she must be sad to have left us. I’m sad she died.”

Tears burned her eyes. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

She’d had the same said to her so many times. Even now, it felt as hollow. She wanted to put her arm around his shoulders, hold him close, and promise him all would be well. Why did she feel such a connection? Who was he?

He bent over the pad again, and a lock of hair fell over his forehead.

And she knew.

“You’re Mr. Warden’s son,” she said.

At last he met her gaze, his own troubled. “Please don’t tell him you found me. I’m supposed to be studying in the other house, but there’s too much noise with the workers pounding on the roof. I didn’t think you’d mind if I came to this house instead. There’s so much room and not very many of you.”

“You are welcome to come up to the manor whenever you like,” she told him.

“Then you’re not angry?” he asked plaintively.

“No, indeed,” she told him. At least she wasn’t angry with him.

But she found herself positively furious with his father.

* * *

Ben finally managed to shed himself of the baronet as a footman led the fellow off to his room. Ben had seen the look that had crossed Claudia’s face, half annoyance, half desperation. It had been the least he could do to give her a way to escape.

He’d asked the baronet about the manor, as he had the others he’d met. The fellow had some strong ideas concerning the house, many of which went against what the others had told Ben. He’d take those ideas into consideration only if he must.

He was heading down the corridor for the terrace door when Maisy burst from the corridor to the kitchen.

“Not that way,” she said, grabbing his arm. “Your son is in the manor.”

He felt as if she’d planted her fist in his gut. “Where?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, towing him back down the corridor and glancing in every room they passed. “Cook spotted him some time ago, but no one was around for her to warn. We need more staff!”

They certainly did but now was no time to lament the dearth. Ben had counted forty-three rooms in Tyneham Manor, excluding the staff quarters and the attics. His son could be anywhere.

Oliver had that tendency. When Jane had been alive, she’d kept him entertained for hours. She knew just what to do to manage his whimsical moods, his unusual need for quiet. Ben had been struggling ever since she’d gone.

They started up the main stairs, only to spy Claudia coming down. That unflappable face was set in hard lines. Maisy froze like a frightened hare.

“Mr. Warden,” Claudia announced, “I will see you in the library.”

Maisy slanted him a glance. Ben was more concerned about Claudia’s tone, but he couldn’t spare her a moment to ask what he’d done to displease her now.

“I regret that I am on an urgent errand, Your Grace,” he said as graciously as he could. “If you would give me a quarter hour…”

“Now.”

Maisy reared back. Apparently he wasn’t the only one surprised by the vehemence in the lady’s voice.

“I’ll see what I can do about your errand, sir,” the lady’s maid promised before scampering down the stairs and disappearing around the corner.

Ben had no choice but to fall into step beside Claudia as she reached the bottom of the stairs and turned for the corridor that led to the library.

“Have I given offense, Your Grace?” he couldn’t help asking.

“The very greatest offense, sir,” she spat out.

His heart sank.

She led him into the library and took her place behind the desk, but she didn’t deign to sit. Propriety demanded that Ben remain standing as well.

“What sort of father allows his son to wander unsupervised?” she demanded.

She must have found Oliver. He’d thought she’d spotted him that day on the terrace, though Ben hadn’t seen him until later, after Ben and Peters had made a thorough search of the grounds.

“The very worst,” he said. “It won’t happen again.”

“What?” She drew herself up, all high dudgeon. “Will you lock the poor child in a room? Manacle him to a bed?”

Despite himself, his mouth twitched. “I was thinking about staking him out in the garden. More light that way.”

She regarded him a moment more, then dropped onto her seat behind the desk and waved to the chair in front of it. “Oh, sit down.”

Ben sat. It shouldn’t have made any difference to her how he cared for his son, yet he found himself wanting to explain. “I’m sorry he trespassed. My late wife used to care for Oliver. When she died, and I still had to work, my parents attempted to take on that role. But they are getting up in years, and an active boy proved too much for them. When His Grace approached me, I had just learned that Oliver would be returning to our home in London. I asked whether His Grace would allow me to bring the boy with me, and he agreed, though he advised me to keep the matter quiet.”

“And you’ve left him alone in the dower house when you’ve been at the manor or out with me?”

At least the anger had faded from her face. Now he would almost call it puckered, as if his son’s fate meant so much to her.

“My valet, Peters, has been attempting to keep Oliver occupied,” he allowed.

She shook her head. “He’s doing a very poor job.”

How could he explain his son’s oddities without making the boy sound mad? “Oliver can be a challenge,” he tried.

Her pale brows went up. “Indeed. I found him intelligent, quiet, and charming when I met him drawing in the portrait gallery a short time ago.”

Intelligent, yes. Quiet, too much.

Charming?

“He is very fond of drawing,” he said.

“He’s quite good,” she told him. “Have you considered a tutor?”

“An architect must know how to draw, Your Grace,” he said with a smile. “I’ve attempted to pass on thoughts of perspective and shading.”

“It shows.” She sat straighter, as if making a decision. “But however good he is, we cannot have him wandering about the estate unaccompanied. He might be hurt.”

Ben sobered. “I know, Your Grace. I’ll endeavor to find another solution. He won’t trouble you again.”

She frowned. “I think you mistake me, sir. I’m not such a tyrant that I’d turn out a child. No, the most logical solution would be for you to move up to the manor as I originally suggested. I assume your son is the reason you refused?”

Ben nodded, more confused than ever. “Yes, but you must understand. Oliver dislikes noises. When he was younger, he’d clap his hands over his ears and hum to himself to blot them out. Now, he tends to distance himself from them, and we’re never sure where we’ll find him. He can lose himself in his drawing for hours, but when he decides to move, he simply moves. It seems prudent to attempt to contain him.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “You said your wife managed him.”

He felt heavy. “She did, but no one else has shown her skill.”

“I have no idea whether we have such skill or not,” she said. “But there are four of us. Surely we could find ways to keep him occupied.”

“Four of us?” he asked, mind stuttering at what she appeared to be offering.

“Myself, Sophia, Georgina, and Anastasia,” she quantified. “Surely three dowagers and a dog are enough to manage one small boy.”

He very much doubted it, but something inside him yearned to see what she would do. Claudia had clearly managed an entire estate by herself, even when dukes were available. She was clever, confident, and capable.

But Oliver had already lost one mother. Ben wasn’t sure how his son would react if he became fond of Claudia and the others, only to have them disappear from his life as well when Ben moved them to Grace-by-the-Sea. And Ben could attest to how easily it was to become fond of Claudia.

He was already entirely too fond of her.

“You are too kind,” he told her. “But I wouldn’t want to impose.”

She regarded him. “You think me incapable.”

The words might have implied insult, but she sounded more sad than incensed.

“Never, Claudia,” he assured her, leaning forward. “I have seen the power you wield and how well you wield it. But my wife’s death hurt Oliver in ways I’m still trying to understand. I would not see him hurt again.”

Her face softened. “I was never blessed with a child of my own, and Frederick, Georgina’s husband, was already a young man when I married his father. I may not know the joys of motherhood, but that doesn’t mean I cannot understand the importance. Please, Ben. Allow me to help you in this.”

When was the last time she had had to ask? She commanded, she demanded, and men and women jumped to do her bidding. He rather thought it would be that way even if she hadn’t been a duchess. There was something about Claudia.

Something he felt tugging on his heart even now.

“Very well,” he said. “But if you find it even a little inconvenient, if he is not what you expect…”

“We will be fine,” she promised, icy eyes warmer than he’d ever seen them. “I look forward to becoming better acquainted with young Oliver. And you.”