When the Duke Returns
Page 63

Leopold Dautry, Duke of Villiers, would have been the first to say that idle threats were not enough to frighten him. But he had just discovered, to his discomfort, that fear is part of the human condition.
If Jemma were on her way to visit her sister-in-law, then Elijah would be alone tonight. And Villiers found that intolerable. It was foolishly emotional, and yet he was helpless to dismiss the feeling. Elijah would not die alone, not as long as his oldest friend could prevent it.
“Nothing earth-shaking,” he said, putting his spoon precisely by his cup. “Nothing more than a game of chess promised to your husband, m’dear.”
“To Elijah?”
“Precisely.”
“You’re turning back to London and ignoring the missive sent to you by the Duke of Cosway for fear of missing a game of chess with my husband?”
“Ah, but I have known Beaumont nearly all the years of my life, and Cosway a mere dozen or so. I had no idea that you too were travelling and that Beaumont is alone. It behooves me to keep my appointments.”
“Is it because the two of you were estranged for so long?” Jemma asked. She turned to the marquise. “I think it is hardly a secret; my husband and Villiers were boyhood friends and then fell out over some foolishness when they were striplings.”
“Over a dog,” Villiers explained.
“Exactly! The stupidity of men never ceases to amaze me,” Jemma said. “At any rate, they have only recently mended their fences.”
“Naturally,” Villiers drawled, “I should hate to insult him in any fashion. Such a touchy fellow, your husband.”
“Elijah? Nonsense! I don’t believe this tarradiddle, Villiers, not for a moment. There must be something else…”
“Villiers remembered the sudden appointment after my question about his children,” the marquise said, raising an eyebrow.
“There is nothing there to make me return to London,” Villiers said. “Although…”
“I knew it,” Jemma said. “Out with it! What of those poor misbegotten children of yours, Villiers?”
“I promised a young woman who nursed me during my illness that I would take a more fatherly role than merely pay for their maintenance,” Villiers said, offering up the story as bait to distract Jemma.
“Goodness,” the marquise said. “She must have been a Puritan. What on earth did she expect you to do? Raise them yourself?”
“I believe,” Villiers said, taking a final sip of his tea, “that she meant just that.”
“An ill-bred notion,” the marquise said flatly. “Were you to take your bastards under your own roof, Villiers, you would have the greatest difficulty fixing an alliance with a respectable woman.”
He looked at her with a little smile in his eyes. “Do you really think so?”
“You’re challenging him,” Jemma said, laughing a bit. “Do go ahead, Villiers. Start your own orphanage and then announce your candidacy for marriage.”
“Those of the highest blood can be remarkably vulgar,” the marquise said, in a tone that suggested she was thinking of her own spouse.
“I suppose my vulgarity is evidenced by the existence of the children themselves,” Villiers said. “But I am giving serious thought to the question. An excessive regard for public opinion is not congenial to my sense of self.”
“Naturally the children must be well cared for,” the marquise said. “If they were not, it would be morally reprehensible on your part. But I see no duty that requires you to admit children of a base union to your own household.”
Villiers merely smiled.
“I must be on my way,” the marquise said, coming to her feet. “I hope to make at least four hours in my journey before evening.”
They parted at the door, the innkeeper having cleverly placed wooden rondels as stepping stones to the three carriages.
“It’s too late for my boots,” Villiers said. He waited until the marquise was climbing into her carriage, and then leaned close to Jemma. “And I am sorry about that wooden pathway for other reasons as well.”
His breath stirred the hair at her ear and he saw her turn faintly pink.
“Goodbye,” she said, turning away. “Do give my best to Elijah.”
“I shall,” Villiers said. “I shall.”
He watched her all the way to her carriage door, but she didn’t look back.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Revels House
March 5, 1784
The house’s lack of odor was almost miraculous. Simeon walked through the front door taking deep breaths, and even opened the door to the downstairs water closet. The pit didn’t smell.
“Are the Dead Watch gone?” Simeon asked Mr. Merkin, who was pointing out the sparkling nature of said pit. “I gather that Mr. Bartlebee is walking again.”
“It will be a lesson to him,” Mr. Merkin said. As he would tell his wife later, it was none of his business how a duke of the realm protects his own property. “Now I’ve made a very pleasant discovery, Yer Grace.”
Simeon raised an eyebrow.
“The way your river runs down there,” Mr. Merkin explained, “I believe that we can simply divert a portion of it to flow continuously through the central pit. Revels House will have a drainage system like no other! Nary an odor, even on the rainiest of days!”
“Where will the flow emerge?” Simeon asked cautiously.
“We’ll dig a pit on the far side of the hill. In ten years, that will be the most fertile land in the duchy,” Mr. Merkin said, pulling down his waistcoat. “We’re replacing the rotten pipes with the very best, but I know that you and the duchess are of one mind on this, Yer Grace. Spare no expense, the duchess said to me. It may take a bit of an outlay, but this house will be odiferously pure!”
An odd phrasing, but Simeon understood exactly what he meant.
Honeydew walked into the study with a stack of Simeon’s papers, a footman at his heels with more papers. But Simeon froze on the threshold. The room had no furniture other than half-filled bookshelves. Honeydew was arranging stacks of bills and letters in neat piles on the empty shelves.
“Where are my books?” he said, hearing the sharpness in his own voice. “Where is my father’s desk?”
“The duchess had me send the desk straight to London the day you moved to the Dower House,” Honeydew said. “We are expecting all the furniture back in a matter of days. The duchess was quite right, and an offer of double payment in ready money has effected miracles.”
Simeon digested that. “The books? Have they gone to London as well?”
“Only the ones which were falling to pieces,” Honeydew said. He pointed to the ceiling. Simeon looked up and saw a dingy stain that stretched from one corner over approximately a third of the room. “I’m afraid that when the water closet pipes leaked, they inundated the study, causing the rot of a number of books. On the duchess’s instructions—”
Simeon cut him off. “I see.” He felt that familiar swell of anger against his father. Some of those books were among the first books printed in England. He remembered an edition of John Donne’s poems signed by the poet himself…likely merely a moldering heap of pages now.