Page 4 of The Duke's List
“You know what I mean. Let the inquisition begin. Everyone wants to know, even if they’re afraid to ask.” He polished off the last of the sandwiches and finished his coffee before continuing. “What did that great, clumsy oaf of a duke of Sidmouth do to make his saintly, delicate duchess put as much distance between them as humanly possible?” He pushed away from the table and stretched his legs out straight in front of him.
Harriet said nothing, but gave him a piercing stare, all the while nibbling half-heartedly at the same ginger biscuit she’d been working on all the while he’d put away the entire supply of Cook’s sandwiches. “And what the Zeus is wrong with you? Why aren’t you eating? Shall I call for more sandwiches?” He looked at the empty tiered tray as if he’d never seen it before. “Did I eat all of those?” He stood and strode across the Turkey carpet to pull the bell cord in the corner.
The tap at the door was almost immediate, and Carrington pushed through with another cart at Sidmouth’s short “Come.”
After the butler let himself back out, Sidmouth snorted. “He was lurking out in the hallway. My servants are all waiting for his latest report probably. “What’s wrong with Sidmouth now? Is his duchess ever going to re-join the ducal household?”
He lowered his head into his hands and ran them through his gingery curls. “God, Harriet, what am I going to do?”
She stood and came around the table to stand beside him, patting him gently on the shoulder. The words that came out of her mouth a few seconds later were not so gentle.
All I know for sure, along with the rest of the ducal world here at Bocollyn is that you suddenly brought a new duchess-to-be under your roof. You married her by special license early the next morning in the family chapel, and then the two of you disappeared on a supposed honeymoon to the continent.
Yet barely six weeks later, she re-appeared. Alone. And requested Mrs. Smythe find her suitable quarters. Away from the duchess’s bedchamber. That is all any of us know, since you’ve refused to discuss your wife’s apparent mutiny with anyone.
“For the love of Zeus. I’m the Duke of Sidmouth. I can’t just go bawling my heart out to the first person I encounter.”
“Yes, you are indeed the Duke of Sidmouth. You are the latest in an old and revered line of patriarchs to hold the title in this corner of Cornwall.” She paused to nibble some more of the same slowly dwindling biscuit Carrington had given her ages ago. This was not his usually ravenous cousin.
He made a note to have old Doc Miller stop by unannounced and have a look at her. She’d been working entirely too hard the last month. Between helping her son, the young Marquess of Blandford, with his speech, protecting him from his conniving uncle, and suddenly, and serendipitously, falling in love with (and marrying) a Royal Marine passing through Falmouth Harbor, the woman must be exhausted. In addition to the smudges beneath her eyes, her cheeks were entirely too pale.
“But…” Her resumption of their conversation echoed through the family sitting room like a gunshot. “But…if you do not mend the rift with your duchess, you may be thelastof the Dukes of Sidmouth.”
“That’s the most insane argument you’ve ever thrown at me.”
Her eyebrows raised so high, he feared she’d dislodge the pile of magnificent red hair she’d probably piled high on her head in a careless rush that morning.
Neither of them spoke for a long while after the last exchange. Finally, he broke the silence. “Of course, you know Icouldpass the title on to your son if worse comes to disaster.”
She gave him a pitying smile, like that of the downstairs maid the last time he’d collapsed onto the overstuffed chair in front of the kitchen fireplace after a long day in the saddle and proceeded to snore so loudly, he woke himself up.
“When Nicholas assumes the reins at the Blandford estate, he’ll be too busy repairing everything his uncle has destroyed since his father’s death. You’re going to be around for a good, long time. When he comes into his majority, he’ll need you more than ever.” She poured herself yet another splash of tea and emptied the last of Sidmouth’s coffee from the pot into his cup. “I’m not letting you change the subject that easily.” She settled back onto the chintz-covered chaise and swung her feet up, kicking off her slippers. “We have all the time in the world. It’s time you told me exactly what you did on your honeymoon to send your bride hieing off back to Bocollyn without you.”
Jane had donnedher blue serge wool carriage dress and was conducting her daily inspection of the stalls housing Sidmouth’s beauties. She would have married him for his amazing stables even if her father had not insisted on his deathbed that she join the duke in matrimony to protect the family fortune and tin mining empire. The fortune he’d fought so hard and so long to build. That fight for wealth had kept him from his wife and daughter.
As a girl growing up in Cornwall, she’d begged her father to let her have a riding horse when she was eight. Although he grumbled about having another great mouth to feed about the estate, he bought her a fine pony. By the time she moved to London with her mother, she owned a fine thoroughbred, Percy, in whom she confided all her adolescent angst.
Young men had been an enigma wrapped in mystery to her - distant and inscrutable. But then male adolescents had been nowhere to be found in her mother’s artistic circle in London. Letitia Lemon had been a gifted portraitist who surrounded herself with other women artists, poets, and novelists. Some of her paintings still hung at the Royal Academy.
The poetic longing and anxiety Jane herself had carried during those years became fertile ground for Eleanor Darling. Her art teacher and frequent guest at her mother’s weekend salons opened up an exotic world for Jane’s insatiable curiosity. Jane blamed herself for what had happened. But then, she’d been only fifteen.
Jane almost regretted having let down her guard to bare her soul that night to Sidmouth in Venice. Almost. But what was done was done, spilled milk, and so on. What mattered now was what she’d do next. She either had to mend her bridges with her husband or leave him so that he could find love with another. If necessary, she’d disappear into the streets of Paris, and he could claim her fortune, have her declared dead. After all, he was a duke. He could do that. Couldn’t he?
Sidmouth rangfor another pot of coffee. When the fresh pot arrived, he moved to the sideboard and poured a healthy dollop of good French brandy into the bottom of his cup before adding the hot, dark brew.
The months he’d spent seeking out evidence of English traitors in France while his family thought he was busy in London, he’d also nurtured the sources he still used to keep a constant supply of fine brandy in his spirit cellars.
He turned, fortified with a healthy sip of his much beloved drink, and faced his cousin. When he motioned to the bottle of brandy, Harriet shook her head violently and turned an even paler shade of white.
When he finally re-joined her at the tea table, he faced her squarely and revealed all. “She’s an unrepentant wanton.”
In all the years he’d shared the nursery with his cousin, as well as during the many years since, he’d never known her to be speechless.
After several heavy moments of silence, she tilted her head much like a puzzled cat and demanded, “Who? Who are you accusing of being a wanton? Surely not Jane.”
“Yes, Jane. Jane, my wife, Her Grace, the Duchess of Sidmouth.”
Harriet briefly closed her glittering emerald eyes as if in prayer before letting them fly open again. “You must be mistaken. There has to be some explanation…” She trailed off in confused silence.