A Preacher's daughter for the smitten Duke (Regency Romance) (Regency Tales Book 6) (6 page)
Read A Preacher's daughter for the smitten Duke (Regency Romance) (Regency Tales Book 6) Online
Authors: Regina Darcy
How was he to make sufficient progress to ask the question that would legally betroth her to him, if he couldn’t hold a sensible conversation with Phoebe without boring or offending her? Perhaps it was a good thing that he was returning to London in a few days. Country living grated on him, especially now, when he was feeling so little inclined to appreciate the pleasures of the bucolic life. Maybe when he was back in his own element he would be able to communicate better. He fervently prayed that it would be so.
The heat in the room was stifling. The windows were closed to prevent the air, and whatever contagions were borne upon it, into the sickroom. But the patient enclosed within the bed sheets seemed entirely unaware of the temperature; he was buried in a mount of blankets and still he shivered.
“Bart!” he called out in a weak voice.
“I’m here, old chap.”
Lord Bartholomew Granger, the Duke of Middleton, Baron Danver’s commanding officer and lifelong friend, came closer to his bed.
“This is on fine pickle you’ve landed yourself in,” he told his friend with a forced smile. “You are not going to let such a small thing as an infection stop you from returning to England are you?”
“We both know, I won’t survive this darn fever,” Jason Danver responded. He started coughing violently. The Duke reached for the cup of water next to the bed and helped his friend take a sip.
“Not if you don’t take better care of yourself.”
“Old chap, I need you to take care of Arya,” Danver said faintly.
“You’re the only one whom I can trust to put her safety first.”
When Middleton said nothing, the Baron repeated his request.
“I will no longer be here to offer her my protection. A protection she sorely needs.” Once again Baron Danver was racked with a persistent cough.
He took a couple of deep breaths and continued his plea, “She’s an innocent in this nest of vipers. Her family . . . they see her as a pawn and they’ve used her as such. Her mother, while she was alive, never had any influence on the decisions that the Maharajah Sangvitani Singh made, and as for that brother of hers, he’s as duplicitous as the devil himself.”
His eyes, feverish but intent locked with Bartholomew’s. He gripped the Duke’s arm and held on firmly as he whispered, “Promise me that you’ll look after Arya when I’m gone. I ask you this on the memory and strength of our friendship.”
The Duke’s heart constricted, his mind still refusing to accept the inevitable. Nevertheless, as his friend continued to stare at him, he finally gave him the answer he was after.
“Yes. Yes, of course I will, but you mustn’t give up.”
“No need to pretend. I’m dying and everyone knows it… Arya knows it too.”
“Where is she?”
“She can’t be allowed in the sickroom. You see . . . ” a frail smile touched the wan lips of the wasting Baron. “We’re . . . she’s going to have our child. It’s very early yet, but nothing must be done to put the unborn baby in harm’s way. He’ll be the heir to my estate; he must be kept safe. I have nowhere else to turn; no one else but you understands the delicacy of our role in India.” He began to cough in earnest now, his body racked by the spasms.
Bartholomew bent down to support his friend, bracing his back so that he could sustain the cough without collapsing. “Arya . . . I have tried to be a good husband, and she has tried to be a good wife, but the odds have been against us. She’s half English and half-Indian; both sides regarded her with suspicion. She’s the dearest girl, but when I’m gone she’ll be alone. I need you to give me your word Bart.”
“Yes, of course. You have my word.”
The Baron smiled, relief colouring his features.
“The two of you have always gotten on well; I knew that I could count on you to do right by her. And by my child.”
“Yes, of course,” the Duke reassured him again.
The Baron fell back upon the bed, exhausted but relieved.
“Thank you. There are no words to express my gratitude. You’ve always been there when I needed you.” Danver waved weakly for the glass by his bed; Bartholomew handed it to him. Danver drank deeply then handed it back to his friend.
“There’s poppy in it; I’ll sleep soon, and very soon, I’ll sleep forever.” He closed his eyes and seemed to drift off. But soon he opened his eyes again.
“You’ll make sure that my child knows who I was, wont you old chap? If it is a boy, he must follow the family tradition: Eton, then Oxford, then a commission. God knows if the Empire will still be here when he reaches manhood; all these rebellions and rival potentates only harm India. But duty comes before all. You will make sure that my son knows this?” the Baron asked urgently.
“Yes.”
“He must do his duty. As I have done mine. As Arya has done hers. You will impress that upon him as he grows to manhood. He must do his duty as a British subject.”
“Yes.”
The Baron sighed. “I am counting on you,” he whispered, his voice fading as his eyelids closed.
Bartholomew remained standing until his friend had fallen asleep. He stood in silent salute to a fallen brother at arms, tears streaming down his cheeks.
After the
Battle of Delhi
during the Second Anglo-Maratha War the crown had seen a need to ensure its interest were being represented accurately. It had sent the Bartholomew Granger and Jason Danver to create political alliances and relationships in India. Alliances beyond that of the East India Company. It had been four long years. During that time Bartholomew had inherited the Duchy of Middleton, when his father died. The Duke had been dreaming of England for the last six months. His duty and estate calling to him. Both men’s commissions were coming to the end and they had been in serious talk about leaving the colonies together. That dream was now dead, Jason Danver would not live to see his homeland again. The Duke took a deep breath, clicked his heels together, bowed, turned around and walked out of the room.
It did not have occurred to him to deny his friend’s dying request to look after his wife and unborn child, but he had no idea of just how he was to do that.
Surely the Maharajah would want his daughter under his wing so that he would control the inheritance that she would receive on behalf of her child, who would be the heir to the impressive Danver estate and title. The Maharajah was by all accounts a fond father, but he was a ruler first and his children were the armoury with which he built up his power. British intelligence was not certain whether the Maharajah was playing both sides or whether he was unaware of the subversive activities of his eldest son Param. But it was only a matter of time before Param’s political activism on behalf of independence and his father’s strong ties to the British Empire were destined to collide.
When Bartholomew left the room, the hallway outside the sickroom was thronged with people; friends, fellow officers, members of Lady Arya’s family. But not her brother; Bartholomew’s observant eye noted that Param Singh was not among the waiting crowd. Nor was the Maharajah, but that was not surprising; Indian royalty did not wait in hallways. The Maharajah would come when he decided it was time to say good-bye to his British son-in-law and he would do so with pomp and ceremony, a visit from a potentate to a representative of the British government.
The marriage between his half-English daughter and Baron Danver had been arranged for political reasons. The Maharajah, mindful of the unrest in his province, and convinced that the only way to forge peace was to strengthen the bonds between the British Raj and his dynasty, had offered his beautiful daughter as a prize. Arya Singh, the obedient daughter of the Maharajah and his second wife, dutifully married the Baron a year ago as she had been told to do.
What she thought of the match, Bartholomew didn’t know. He only knew that he had fallen in love with Arya Henrietta Singh, on the day that she became Baroness Danver, his best friend’s wife.
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