A Season for Love (23 page)

“
Quick! Over the fence!” Bert Tunney
called, his broad silhouette hovering with one foot on a sturdy
espaliered tree as he clambered toward the top of the wooden
barrier on the far side of the garden.

Flann and Alfie charged toward him, cutting
swaths through the close-packed array of late spring flowers. They
were close, so very close, to the fence, when a shot rang out.

“
Hold right there!” the Duke of
Longville shouted. When the men did not pause, he raised a second
pistol and fired. The two miscreants slid to a halt, just inches
short of the fence. Surprisingly, Bert Tunney had stood his ground,
his boots on the stout espaliered branches, one hand clinging to
the top of the fence.

“
Now, listen, guv’nor,” said Alfie
Grubbs. “You’ve shot your pops, so you ain’t got nuffin’ left.
There’s one of you and three of us—”

“
How do you know I haven’t another
pistol?” the duke taunted.

“
Mebbe you do and mebbe you don’t,”
Alfie countered, “but ’tis true them’s dueling pistols and they
comes in pairs.”

“
Leave the jewels,” the duke declared
calmly, “and I’ll not have you hunted down like dogs in the
street.”

“
And what do you need with all this?”
Flann McCollum demanded with considerable scorn. “Ye’ve got
everythin’ a man c’d want in this world. Sure now, and isn’t it
better the baubles go to feed hungry bellies than do no good atall
’round your wife’s neck?”

“
If those gems go to feed anything more
than your own belly, I’ll be considerably surprised,” the duke
retorted. “Come now, don’t be a fool. Put the boxes
down.”

“
And what’s to happen to us if we do?”
Alfie demanded.

Behind the duke, lights flickered in the
kitchen as Sims, followed closely by two footmen, all holding
candles, arrived to provide support for their master. At the same
moment the mews gate banged open, and the head groom strode
through, the ugly silhouette of a shotgun clear in hands. Flann and
Alfie, realizing they could not make their escape while encumbered
by the large jewelry boxes, threw them toward the duke, then turned
and scaled the fence with all the alacrity of experienced tomcats.
But not before Bert Tunney surprised them all by raising a pistol
from the depths of his pocket and firing at the Duke of Longville,
so perfectly silhouetted against the candlelight.

Fortunately, the distance was considerable
and Bert’s hand unsteady, his aim compromised by the last-minute
recollection of what would happen if he killed a premier duke of
the realm. By the time the head groom thundered a shot at the top
of the espaliered tree, Bert Tunney, impervious to his leg injury,
was halfway down the alley, Flann and Alfie on his heels, the three
would-be thieves melting into the shadows of the night.

“
You are mad!” Jen told her husband
with no roundaboutation. “Standing there, all alone, lit from
behind. You might as well have said, “Come, shoot me!”

“
I do not have your military expertise,
my dear . . . and, besides, may I point out that he
missed.”

“
Papa!” Caroline cried, following the
duke and duchess into the drawing room, now dimly lit by a single
wall sconce and a three-branch candelabrum, “you keep your dueling
pistols loaded! I saw you from my window. You are a true
hero.”

“
He is a fool,” Jen continued bitterly.
“All about in his head. He might well have been killed.”

“
Brindley,” the duke bawled, ignoring
his wife. “Well, girl, where are you? Come here this
instant.”

Nell Brindley crept through the doorway, now
clutching a cloak about her. Bare toes peeked out beneath the hem
of her voluminous white cotton nightgown. “Yes, Your Grace?” she
quavered, managing an awkward curtsy.

At that moment the Duke of Longville realized
he was not much better dressed than his servant. His black silk
robe hung open over nightwear just as long and white as Nell’s, and
only slightly less voluminous. His feet, also, were bare. How
fortunate his pistols had been more ready for the moment than he
himself.

“
May I ask what you were doing in the
family hallway, Brindley?” the duke inquired.

Caroline distinctly heard the clatter of
Nell’s teeth before the girl was able to reply. “You see, Your
Grace, I . . . well, sometimes I get hungry at night. At home ‘twas
always easy enough to go the kitchen and help m’self to a bit of
roast, don’t you know? So . . . well, that’s what I wuz doin’, Your
Grace. On my way to the kitchen for a bite to eat.”

“
The back stairs are the other way,
Brindley.”

Nell drew a deep breath. “Yes, sir, my lord,
Your Grace, sir. But y’see, I . . . those stairs be so dark and
closed in. Right creepy they are—”

“
So you took the front stairs . .
.”

“
There’s always a bit of light from the
lamps in the square, you see,” Nell said, peeping fearfully up at
him.

“
Ah, yes,” the duke murmured. His lips
twitched. “I take it this is not the first time you have helped
yourself to—ah—a bit of roast?”

“
No, Your Grace. I mean, yes, sometimes
I do get right peckish in the night. A growing girl I am, that’s
what m’da says.”

Slowly, the duke shook his head, his eyes
fixed on the Aubusson carpet. “I fear I must refrain from scolding
you, Brindley,” he announced. His sharp amber eyes rose to meet her
frightened gaze. “Come to my study at eleven this morning, and I
will see that you are suitably rewarded. A guinea, I should think.
The Carlington jewels are, after all, priceless, and it would seem
that you have saved them.”

“
Oo, sir! Your Grace, do you truly mean
it?”

“
Off with you now,” the duke ordered.
Nell Brindley scampered from the room, so overcome she quite forgot
to curtsy.

“
Thank you, papa,” Caroline said. “That
was most kind.”

“
I pay my debts,” he told her. “You,
too, should go back to bed, Caroline. You have, I believe, been
burning the candle at both ends of late.”

“
You do not think they will come
back?”

“
I do not. We have rescued the watchman
and set two stableboys to patrol in his place. You may retire with
confidence of no more disturbances. Indeed, I think I missed the
one only by inches and the other by no more than a hair’s breadth.
It should be some time before either regains his
courage.”

When Caroline’s footsteps had faded away,
Marcus turned to his wife. “I believe we have something to
discuss,” he said.

“
You were foolhardy,” Jen snapped. “The
jewels are not worth your life.”

“
I was not thinking of the blasted
jewels.”

“
Oh.” Jen turned away, steadying
herself with one hand on the back of the settee. “I cannot discuss
this at the moment, Marcus. I must have time to think the matter
through.”

“
That’s what Amy said. Eight years, and
she never seemed to find an answer.”

Jen’s eyes went wide. “I—I am not like that,
Marcus. I am usually quite decisive. But the matter of Laurence is
so important I cannot allow myself to be swayed by your presence.
You . . . you are so strong, so powerful, that you sweep away my
good sense. Please, I beg of you, a little time to decide how far I
should go to make you understand that you are not always
right.”

Somewhere in her words, Marcus rather
thought she had left him a ray of hope, though at the moment his
mind was too much at sixes and sevens to pinpoint exactly which
words incited a modicum of optimism.
Not
always right
. He had spent a great many years of his
life building up the belief that this was not possible. Was this,
then, what marriage to Jen demanded of him? A loss of
infallibility?

“
Goodnight, Marcus,” Jen said softly,
though she did not come near him. “Before retiring, I will thank
God on my knees that man was a poor shot.”

Marcus allowed himself a tiny smile. “You do
not wish to be rid of me then?”

“
No, Marcus, I do not at all wish to be
rid of you,” his duchess murmured. “Goodnight.”

Idly, the duke noticed for the first
time his wife was also wearing white cotton nightwear, and with
that abominably ugly wool robe over it.
Women
. He shook his head. His duchess was more
poorly dressed than his housekeeper. Which reminded him he must
send Sims and Mrs. Jenks back to bed, after giving them orders to
recheck every door in the house.

All and all, it had not been such a bad
evening. He had defended his castle, almost as if he were one of
his illustrious ancestors riding at the head of the king’s army. A
much-needed boost to his
amour-propre
, which had suffered in recent months
from his frustration over being unable to mend England’s troubles
at home and abroad, and, more recently, from his wife’s rejection.
If only Jen would look at him as Caroline had done. Ah, yes, his
daughter had looked at him as if he were Wellington
himself.

Marcus sighed and went to bed. But not before
cleaning and loading both dueling pistols.

“
Making a cake of yourself, Frayne,”
said Mr. Peyton Trimby-Ashford to his friend, who had one shoulder
propped against a pillar in the Grantley’s ballroom and a serious
glower marring his handsome face as he watched Lady Caroline float
by in the arms of Sir Chetwin Willoughby. “If a young lady may not
dance more than two dances with one man,
ergo
, she must dance with others or suffer the
stigma of being termed a wallflower,” Peyton added
helpfully.

“
I have not had so much as
one
dance,” Tony retorted, obviously
highly annoyed by this surprising iniquity.

“
Slow top, are you?”

“
If you must know,” the viscount said
from between clenched teeth, “the duke and I came late to the Lady
Harriet’s ball. We sent the ladies ahead while we discussed the
events of last night. By the time we arrived, all Caroline’s dances
were bespoke.”

“
She did not save you even one?” said
Peyton, much astonished.

“
Nary a one.”

Mr. Trimby-Ashford frowned, considering the
matter seriously, as a true friend should. “I daresay,” he
ventured, “Lady Caroline thought you might have spoken up before
the ladies left for the ball. Or, perhaps, she is pointing out that
you have come to take her company for granted.”

“
Devil take it! We’re family,” Tony
ground out. “I do not expect to stand on ceremony with her. Did she
expect a waltz to take precedence over housebreakers? She might, at
least, have saved me the supper dance.” The viscount’s complaint
dwindled to something embarrassingly close to a whine. An even
darker scowl lined his face.

“
If you was married,” Peyton suggested,
“you could have as many dances as you wished.”

“
No, I could not,” the viscount
snarled. “You know perfectly well husbands and wives do not sit in
each other’s pockets. I should probably be laughed out of my clubs
if I danced with a wife more than once a night.”

“
Speaking of husbands and wives,” said
Mr. Trimby-Ashford, deciding this was an auspicious time to change
the subject, “I have not seen the duchess tonight. I trust she is
not ill?”

“
Jen?” said Tony, his mind still on the
dance floor, where Caroline was laughing at some remark by Sir
Chetwin. “Truthfully, I am not sure. She simply announced she would
not be attending the Grantley’s ball and asked mama to play
gooseberry to Caroline and Emily.”

“
Perhaps she is distressed by the
housebreakers,” Peyton suggested.

“
Jen?” Tony exclaimed. “My sister was
scarcely distressed by Bonaparte’s
Grande
Armée
. I doubt three London housebreakers are going to
send her into a fit of the vapors.”

“
Is she?— I beg your pardon,” mumbled
Peyton, a blush staining his rotund cheeks.

“
You and mama,” Tony drawled, glancing
sideways at his friend. “My dear mother has been atwitter all
evening on just that off-chance. But, no, I do not believe I am to
be an uncle again any time soon. I rather think the duke and Jen
have had their first quarrel, which is, of course, something they
must deal with by themselves.”

Peyton followed his friend’s gaze, which was
once again fixed on one particular pair amidst the colorful swirl
of waltzing couples. “You could try bribery,” he suggested
helpfully. “Discover who has the next waltz with Lady Caroline and
arrange to take his place.”

“
A bit obvious, is it not?”

“
And hanging on a pillar, glaring,
simply makes you one of the crowd?”

“
Go away and let me be miserable in
peace.”

Peyton chuckled, clapped his friend on the
back. “I must be off. I have the next dance with Miss Bettencourt.
And, Tony? Perhaps it’s time you made it clear you have
reconsidered your vow not to marry until you are forty.”

The viscount turned and faced his friend
squarely, his eyes bleak pools of blue. “As if that would matter to
a young lady who has declared she will not marry at all,” he
said.

For a moment the two young men stared at each
other, then Tony turned abruptly and strode out one of the French
doors onto the terrace. Mr. Peyton Trimby-Ashford looked after him,
heaved a long-drawn sigh of sympathy, then went in search of Miss
Emily Bettencourt.