A Suspicious Affair (11 page)

“Don’t even think about it, lad. What else have you done?”

“Well, I sent for Dimm, too. Marisol might be dicked in the nob about someone trying to hurt the baby, but I had to humor her. He won’t get here till tomorrow anyway.”

“Rear guard never hurt. What else?”

“We put water on to boil. Everyone knows to do that much. And he”—Foster jerked his head toward the corner of the room where Boynton sat—”made another bowl of wassail.”

“Excellent, excellent. Nothing like firing up the troops. So now all we do is wait. That’s the hardest part of any campaign, the waiting. And there’s one other thing a good soldier does before battle: He prays like the devil.”

*

Upstairs a different kind of war was being waged. Marisol was trying to evict the dowager from her chambers, and the dowager was refusing to leave.

“If you can believe I’d harm my own grandson, I can believe you’d be so low as to switch babies to save your own skin. I am staying right here until I see that child with my own eyes.”

Marisol was midway through swearing that she’d not let the baby come while her mother-in-law was in the room, when Mrs. Hambley calmly arrived and took over. First she rolled up her sleeves. “See? Nary a bairn stashed anywhere, Your Grace,” she addressed the older woman. “And me a vicar’s wife besides. I’d never have truck with such havey-cavey doings. What comes is God’s will, and that’s that, so you can go downstairs and keep the men-folks from drinking themselves stupid or you can sit in that corner out of the way quiet-like.” Next she washed her hands and turned to Marisol. “While we get to work instead of this argle-bargle. And you save your energy for the baby, Your Grace, for from the size of him—or her—it’s going to be a handful.”

So Marisol stopped fretting about the dowager and concentrated instead on hoping that bastard Arvid burned in hell for doing this to her.

*

Downstairs the men paced. Then Foster dozed off in a chair and Boynton slipped in and out of a drunken stupor on the sofa. The Earl of Kimbrough found himself pacing alone, which made him so angry he paced harder and faster. What the bloody hell was he doing here anyway, and why was he the one staying up all night worrying over Arvid Pendenning’s relicts? He’d just go on home. They could send a messenger.

Then a door slammed upstairs. Foster sat up with a jerk. More doors opened and closed. A woman screamed. Boynton got himself over to the nearly empty wassail bowl and started to pour out a cup. They all heard the next scream; they all bypassed the punch bowl and headed for the whiskey decanter.

There was one more scream and then, when at least two of the men were ready to tear their own hearts out if it would help, came the unmistakable sound of a new life welcoming the dawn of Christmas morning.

Boynton and Foster trailed Kimbrough into the vast, echoing marble hall. They stood there, staring up, for what seemed like hours more.

“For the love of God,” Boynton shouted up the stairs, “what is it?”

There was one more shriek, a long, loud, high-pitched moan actually, the unmistakable sound of the dowager pulling her hair out.

Chapter Eleven

The earl paid a duty call two days later. The baby was his ward and all. He brought flowers from the Hall’s conservatory for the duchess and a silver rattle he’d picked up in London for the occasion for the baby. It seemed the thing to do. He’d leave his offerings with the butler, play a game of chess with Foster, and be on his way, duty done.

Except the duchess wanted to see him. Upstairs, in her newly refurbished chambers. Carlinn found himself adjusting his neckcloth as he followed Jeffers up the stairs.

Marisol was propped up against the pillows of the large, sun-filled room. But the sun was not shining this day. Instead, the room was painted a soft lemony yellow and had flowered bed coverings and drapes so it reminded him of spring. The duchess wore a robe of amber velvet, buttoned to her chin, and a jonquil ribbon was threaded through the long blonde braid that lay over her shoulder. She looked weary and wan, but happier than he had ever seen her.

Nodding briefly at his arrival, the duchess turned her rapt gaze back to the bundle by her side.

“I wanted you to meet your ward, my lord,” she said softly. “It’s a boy.”

“Yes, so I’d heard,” Carlinn replied dryly. He could still hear Foster’s whoops reverberating in his ears and the unpleasant sound of Boynton grinding his teeth into nubs. Then there had been the servants’ cheers, the ringing of church bells, the messengers sent off to London, Boynton drumming his feet on the carpet. The day after Christmas brought Mr. Stenross with papers to sign, Foster with inquiries about his commission, foxed Boynton to be fished out of the village pond. You might say the earl had heard.

“And he’s the most beautiful boy in the whole world,” the duchess cooed. “Come look.”

Lord Kimbrough took a cautious step closer to the bed. “Very nice, I’m sure. Congratulations.”

“Silly, you can’t see his face from there. Come closer.”

She was right; the child looked like a pile of rags from this distance. He went up to the bed. It still looked like a pile of rags. Then the duchess peeled away a layer or two of wrappings. My word, he thought, he’d seen more appealing specimens crawl out from under a log! Worst of all, the red and wrinkled creature seemed already to possess the Laughton Nose. Great heaven, was that to be his job, too, to see that the child’s nose got broken before he reached manhood? The duchess was looking up expectantly.

Carlinn coughed. “Er, handsome indeed. Fine big boy, I understand.” That’s what the aunt had said, that he was a strapping lad despite coming into the world two weeks early. To the earl the infant looked only slightly larger than a newborn foxhound pup, and not nearly as charming. He must have said the right thing, however, for the duchess was smiling blissfully.

“Have you, ah, selected a name for him?” the earl asked, rather than trying to come up with more Spanish coin. “I, ah, bought him a gift, but it needs to be monogrammed.” He held out the tissue-wrapped parcel. Her maid took the flowers to put into a vase and drew a chair next to the bed for him. So much for a brief duty call.

Marisol uncovered the silver rattle. “How kind. Nolly will love it when he is a little older.”

“Nolly? I know I said I wouldn’t interfere, ma’am, but you really can’t send your son through life with a name like Nolly. Why, he wouldn’t survive public school.”

“I know that, my lord. I’m not a total peagoose, you know. His name is Noel, for being born on Christmas day, but we can call him Nolly until he’s bigger. The dowager is furious, of course.”

“Of course. I suppose she thought the babe should be named after Arvid?”

“Yes, so that his memory would live on. As if I wanted any reminder of Arvid! I only pray Nolly has nothing of his father in him.”

Nolly would have done better with Arvid’s nose, Kimbrough decided, but he kept that thought to himself.

“The dowager then suggested, no, she
demanded
that I name him after the fifth duke, her husband Ajax. Everyone says Arvid’s father was a worse scoundrel than Arvid ever managed to be. And Foster already bears our father’s name. So it’s Noel, for the holidays, that he should find joy and hope. Noel Alistaire Laughton Pendenning, seventh Duke of Denning. There’s more, but all those titles and such can wait.”

“I daresay. So is the dowager resigned, now that she has such a, er, fine grandson?”

“Oh no, we’ve already had words. I refuse to hire a wet nurse, you see, and she considers that unladylike and indecent.” She looked up at him, challenging him to make a comment.

Kimbrough hadn’t come through two years on the Peninsula without knowing when to keep his head down. He just nodded.

“And she thinks Nolly should be in the nursery.”

Again she was daring him to exert his authority. “Ah, isn’t that where infants usually go?”

“What, when he’s so tiny and needs me so often? Why should he be alone, or with strangers, or worse, with that old woman who nursed Boynton?”

“Heaven forfend. For all we know, she’s the one who first wrapped that coxcomb in puce swaddling clothes.”

“You’re teasing, but I am not. The woman is as deaf as Aunt Tess. What if Nolly were hungry or hurt?”

“Quite. But how will you manage?”

“Very well, thank you. Women have been caring for their own babies for centuries now, don’t you know?”

“But they haven’t been duchesses, I’d swear. Soon you’ll have this great barn to manage, the dowager to dislodge. And you need your rest.”

She nodded, tucking the baby back in his blankets. “My maid Sarah is a gem, for one thing. I cannot even imagine asking Tyson—she was my dresser in London—to help change Nolly’s diapers. Tyson hated babies. And Sarah has a sister at home who is wonderful with children. Rebecca helped care for all of Vicar Hambley’s brood and is now seeking a position, according to Mr. Dimm. We’ll do fine until she arrives in a day or two.”

“Oh, then you’ve seen Dimm?” He studied the tassel on his Hessians, wondering how much the Runner or Foster had said about the latest contretemps. He hoped the news hadn’t upset the duchess; there was still childbed fever to be wary against. She didn’t look ailing, just tired as she nuzzled the top of the infant’s head.

She said, “Yes, Mr. Dimm called yesterday afternoon. Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Wonderful? That Mr. Dimm called?”

“No, about the shooting. I don’t mean that it’s very wonderful for Lord Ashcroft, of course, or his family, but I didn’t do it!”

It was too late; the fever had already affected her brain. “Pardon?”

“Don’t be so buffleheaded. Your neighbor, Lord Ashcroft, was shot in his carriage on his way to Squire’s house Christmas morning. And there is not a soul in England who can possibly accuse me of committing the crime. Isn’t that fine?”

“Of all the addlepated ideas… It was a robbery gone bad, that’s all. Ashcroft was only nicked. Nothing to do with you or Arvid or anything.”

“Then why was Mr. Dimm asking Foster if he’d gone straight to bed after the baby was born? And asking Boynton if he’d gone directly to the village to get castaway?”

“Because as magistrate I asked him to assist our local constable, whose major investigation prior to this was finding whose cow ran through Widow Greenfield’s front garden. Lud knows why I asked Dimm to help with the detective work, he’s done so poorly with Arvid’s murder, but I did. And he was asking us questions because he wanted to know if we saw anything that morning, that’s all.”

“Us? Weren’t you home either?”

“No, I was keeping vigil here with your other suspects. Then I went home, across the fields, seeing no one. I let myself into my house, seeing no one, and slept alone in my bed until my sister woke me up to open Christmas presents. No alibi.” He crossed his arms over his chest and glared.

“Oh. Well, as you say, it must have been a robbery. And Foster is too excited about his army career, and I told Boynton I’d pay his debts if the child was a boy, so there is no motive.” She took her eyes off the baby long enough to notice his dark look. “And you are too well breeched, of course.”

Kimbrough got to his feet. “Thank you, I think. I’ll just be going along then. There is a crime to investigate, don’t you know, and I am magistrate.”

She missed the sarcasm, staring again at the baby in her arms. “You know,” she said, “I really could kill someone, I think. I mean, I used to believe I would never do such a thing. But now, with Nolly to protect, I do think I could.” She looked up, and a cold, hard expression came over her face. “You might be Nolly’s guardian, but I swear, if you ever harm a hair on his head, I’ll—”

“Nolly doesn’t have a hair on his head, you baconbrained Bedlamite! And I am not a murderer, a brute, or a child molester! What do you think, I’ll have Nolly drawn and quartered if he soils his nappy?”

The infant started to cry. Marisol drew him closer. “Look at you, you’re shouting! If you can shout at a tiny baby, you can do anything!”

“I am not shouting at the baby, madam; I am shouting at you!” Carlinn lowered his voice to a mere window-rattling whisper. “And yes, you aggravate my temper past bearing, but that’s all, do you hear me? That’s all! I can be angry without committing mayhem, Duchess. Lud knows you are pushing me to the limits, but I am not a violent man!” He stomped to the door. “Once and for all, I am not a murderer! And your child is not—” He was going to say “not beautiful,” but the sight of her rocking the infant, whispering to him, made Carlinn regret even intending the slight. “Your child is not in any danger.”

*

“Deuce take it, the woman is afraid of me!”

“Don’t fatch yourself, my lord,” Dimm consoled him, over a glass of the finest cognac it had ever been the Runner’s pleasure to sip. “Females is unpredictable. They be especially changeable in Her Grace’s condition, like with the tides. They got their humors, their moods.”

“Yes, but that woman’s moods are all bad! And it’s not just now, either. She’s always been afraid of me.”

“If you think on it, mayhap she has cause.” Dimm held the stemmed goblet up to the fire’s light, admiring the color of the spirits the way his lordship was doing, but not for too long before having another sip. “Figger this. For all she’s a duchess, Her Grace is a weak little dab of a thing what couldn’t protect herself from a flea. You’re a big, imposing bloke what does shout some.” He held up a hand before the earl could protest. “I know, my lord. You be used to yelling at the troops to make sure they heard you—to be obeyed. But she ain’t no soldier.”

“You make me sound like Attila the Hun. I’m a gentleman, confound it!”

“I can’t say as that holds much weight with Her Grace neither. Look what examples of the breed she’s known so far. That brother’s just an unlicked cub with a quick fuse, but he’d use his fists afore his tongue every time. The father was a decent enough sort, from his rep, but he lost the family holdings so Her Grace had to take the highest bidder, Denning. Violent man, His Grace. No, don’t surprise me none if she fears men.”

“You’re saying he—No, I don’t want to know.” Kimbrough swirled the cognac in its crystal. “That bastard.”

“I’ll drink to that.” So he did, and the earl poured another glass for both of them. His lordship lit a cheroot, and Dimm had his pipe going, his feet propped on a hassock. Heaven couldn’t match this, he figured, then begged his dead wife’s pardon, God love her. As dusk fell, so did the level of the bottle. Dimm contemplated his host, sprawled in his leather chair, still glowering over his visit with Lady Marisol.

“A woman like that needs a man with a gentle touch, like a filly what’s been broke to bridle too rough. Otherwise that filly won’t let any man near her. Unrideable, don’t you know.”

“What, you think the duchess will never marry again?” In Kimbrough’s experience, all women married again and again, given the chance.

“Hard to say. She won’t have to, with her income, that’s for sure. And it’s just as sure that she’ll have men buzzing around her like bees to a flower iffen she seems interested. Once she goes out and about, she could have her pick.”

“Yes, of every loose screw in England.”

“She be young, beautiful, and rich. What more could a decent chap want?”

“Your particular filly’s got a dashed odd kick to her gallop. No discriminating gent’s going to fall for those big blue eyes and forget the rest.”

“No? It happens every day. Plenty.”

“Not in the ton, it doesn’t. And she won’t marry any fortune hunter either, if I have my say.”

“But you don’t have any say-so, begging your pardon, milord. You be the boy’s guardian, not Her Grace’s.”

“Exactly, and she’s not taking my ward away to live with any basket scrambler.”

Dimm whistled. “I see some rough sailing ahead, I do. Wouldn’t want to be in the room when you tell Her Grace she can’t marry where she wants this time around, if she wants.”

“Nonsense. I wouldn’t discuss it with her; I’d just warn the flat off. I’d be doing the skirter a favor anyway. Her Grace would make a hell of a wife.” He got up to put another log on the fire.

Dimm shook his head. “I don’t know why you two rub sparks off each other. Onct I got to know her, I found Her Grace a real lady. Loyal, quickwitted, pretty as a picture.”

“A picture of a battleship in full sail, you mean. No, the woman I wed will be sleek. None of this running to fat, after. And she’ll be biddable, by George, without all those moods and megrims.”

“Been thinking of taking a wife then, have you?” Dimm wanted to know.

“I’ve been thinking of Arvid’s going off so suddenly, that’s what. And Lord Ashcroft getting shot. Something like that could happen to anyone.”

“Uh-huh. If there be one thing certain, it’s that life ain’t.”

“And then there’s my sister and that blasted presentation. I can’t like depending on acquaintances to chaperone her properly. A well-bred, socially acceptable wife could get Bettina fired off in style.”

“No saying but what the right wife can ease a man’s burdens. So you want one as won’t ruffle your feathers, won’t get snubbed by them hostesses at Almack’s, and won’t be real expensive to feed?”

Carlinn raised his glass in salute of the Runner’s perspicacity. “That sounds ideal.”