Barbara Metzger (20 page)

“Why the devil did she do a thing like that?”

“Not because the place held happy memories, from what I’ve gathered. No, somehow the child has got it in her head that you won’t come home while she is at the Priory. Since you haven’t yet—”

“Dash it, I’ve been busy. Bankers, solicitors, then helping Trevor get around.”

“—Lisanne is convinced that she is keeping you here in London with her presence in Devon. If you don’t have to deal with her in Devon, she’s decided, then you’ll leave this sinkhole of depravity. She feels responsible for your absence and even more responsible for your further slide into degradation.” Lady Comstock fixed the duke with a gimlet stare, taking note of the bloodshot eyes and the bruises.

“That’s absurd.” It wasn’t, of course. It was damn near the truth, that Sloane was running from his bride and running amok defending her name, but that was none of Aunt Hattie’s business. Or Lisanne’s. “I’d like to know how in tarnation she heard anything about my ‘further slide.’ You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” She knew everything else, with her network of letter-writing spies.

“What, do you think I would tell that sweet child that her husband is throwing drunken tantrums in the men’s clubs because some chowderhead teases him over his wife’s idiosyncracies?”

“Tantrums? Teases? Idiosyncracies? Madame, you certainly have a way with words. So what did you tell her?”

“I didn’t have to tell her anything, you clunch. Your name is in every scandal sheet and gossip column. She can read, you jackass. And what tidbits Lisanne might have missed that harebrained cousin of hers makes sure to write. The little Findley twit thinks she’s doing the duchess a favor, in exchange for having her Season at Neville House. So, yes, your wife knows all about your brawls and your binges. She is as well informed of Prinny’s edicts as she is of the betting books at White’s. And she knows every rumor making the rounds.”

“Then why the deuce doesn’t she come to London and disprove them all? That’s why I sent for her, you know.”

“Because she believes you wouldn’t have done so unless your hand was forced. Lisanne thinks you don’t want her here, that you’re afraid she’ll shame you worse. I think
she’s
afraid of that, too.”

“And will she? Will she make me an even bigger fool than I am now?”

“How could you ask that? You have to know she’s intelligent and caring. You said yourself she was beautiful. Good heavens, boy, if you truly dislike her, by all that’s holy, why did you marry her in the first place?”

Because of her eyes. Because she needed him to keep her safe. Because she wanted something so badly she was willing to bargain with the devil to get it. Sloane wiped his mouth with the napkin. “For the money, of course. That’s what everyone is saying, isn’t it?”

“Gammon. Everyone knows you were dished, but you could have found some cit’s daughter to trade for your title ages ago if that’s what you wanted.”

“Ah, but I didn’t…until things got so bad I had no choice. By then, of course, my reputation was so black no merchant banker would let me through the door. Lisanne Neville was the only heiress crazy enough to marry me.”

Lady Comstock stood up and slapped him.

*

St. Sevrin wasn’t in the mood for a long, boring carriage ride with its tolls and grooms and changes to inferior cattle. So he rode the roan stallion into Devon. The horse was the meanest brute St. Sevrin had ever owned, but had the strength to go forever on little rest. Sloane called him Diablo, Devil. The roan’s previous owner hadn’t called him anything intelligible, not with his jaw broken from a flying hoof. Not surprisingly, the duke had gotten a good price. He hoped to use the beast for breeding someday, if Diablo didn’t kill him first.

The stallion took a bite out of the arm of an ostler in Reading, and kicked in his stall in Wincanton. There were two more places St. Sevrin wouldn’t be welcomed to visit again, two more drafts on his bank.

At least Diablo wasn’t boring, not by half. The man-hater tried to unseat St. Sevrin every time the duke’s thoughts wandered and his hands relaxed on the reins, which was often, with everything on St. Sevrin’s mind. Most times Sloane stayed aboard, sometimes he didn’t, but he always managed to hang onto the reins and not get trampled. By the time they reached Devon, the duke was bent and bruised. He was not defeated, however, which he considered good practice for the coming battle with his wife.

Lisanne
was
coming with him to London. He’d had enough of this nonsense. So she had doubts. Everyone did. It made no never mind. They were married, by George, and by her own wishes.

St. Sevrin reached the Priory in late afternoon, in time to be awed at the difference in the old place. The drive was smooth and rut-free, and the grounds finally resembled lawns, not fields of grass and weeds. An army of gardeners was pruning hedges and trimming flower beds that were bouquets of vibrant colors.

A groom ran out to take his horse, then whistled up three more stable hands after St. Sevrin’s warning and Diablo’s flattened ears. They’d do. The duke turned his attention to the Priory itself. Every windowpane on the four-story building was in place and gleaming in the late-day sun. No ivy grew over the scrubbed brick facing, and fresh slates appeared on the roof. The ancient pile had never looked this good, not in Sloane’s lifetime, not in his father’s or grandfather’s, either, he’d wager.

The front door opened before he could reach it, and a dignified, deferential butler bowed him inside. A nearby footman stepped forward to take his saddlebags. Another went to notify Cook, a third to order his bath.

My word, the duke wondered, was this the same place? The wood paneling shone, almost reflecting the patterns of the brilliant rugs on the floor. There were exquisite antique furnishings wherever he looked, even paintings on the walls. Good taste had failed in this one instance, for someone had managed to unearth or buy back the Shearingham ancestors’ portraits. It was a waste of blunt, Sloane considered, for there was not an admirable one in the bunch, but it was a nice thought. The vases of flowers everywhere added a delightful touch of home—just not his home. Sloane could smell the late summer blooms, chrysanthemums, asters, and others he didn’t recognize, instead of the mildew and mustiness of his last visit.

Upstairs, his bedchamber had been similarly transformed, complete with flowers on the nightstand. In minutes, more courteous help was bringing a hot bath and taking his clothes away to be pressed. Then the butler and a footman carried in an excellent meal, considering the kitchens had no warning of his arrival, and an excellent vintage of wine.

The servants weren’t familiar like Kelly, but then they hadn’t been through a war with him. For the first time, Sloane actually felt like a duke. He knew he had done nothing to earn these people’s respect, but they gave it to the title anyway, or to the person who paid the bills. He sent compliments to the cook and thanked the housekeeper for a fine job.

This was how Neville Hall was always kept, the elderly woman informed him. Of course it was easier when the master and mistress were in residence, she added with a faint hint of censure. The staff did like to have their work appreciated.

Sloane was so appreciative and so comfortable and so loathe to get back on that bone-rattler, he decided to wait until the morning to visit his wife. Besides, he didn’t want to frighten her, marching in at night as though he meant to claim his conjugal rights then and there.

He went to bed early and left word that he was to be awakened early, knowing from his aunt and Kelly how Lisanne could disappear for hours. Unfortunately Diablo also had a good night’s sleep. He didn’t want to be saddled. He didn’t want to be ridden. And he definitely didn’t want to take that shortcut through the woods. Since the duke didn’t fancy having his head laid open by low branches or his neck broken against a tree trunk, he wisely decided to ride the long way around.

The carriage drive and grounds of Neville Hall were in the same flawless condition as the Priory’s, and the house, a more modern stone edifice, was equally as well maintained. The groom who came to take Sloane’s horse, however, was bent over, leaning on his stick. The fellow was never going to be able to hold the stallion, much less get him to the stable and rubbed down.

“Is there anyone else around to help?”

“Aye, Old Bill. I’m Young Bill.”

If this was Young Bill, St. Sevrin marveled that Old Bill could still wield a pitchfork. He didn’t much have to, the duke saw when he took Diablo around to the stable himself. Inside the vast structure were a decrepit pony nodding in its stall, two donkeys, a goat with a bandaged leg, and Old Bill, asleep on a stool in a patch of sunlight.

Diablo seemed interested in the goat, so he let Sloane get him settled in the stall next door with only one halfhearted attempt to bite the duke’s hand off, and one kick that missed by feet instead of the stallion’s usual inches. Sloane walked back to the house.

No one answered the front door, so he knocked again. This time the door creaked open. No, the creak was from the joints of the bewigged butler who bowed and asked his business.

“I’m St. Sevrin. I’ve come to see my wife.”

The butler squinted at him. “No, you’re not the duke. He has gray hair and a red nose.”

“That was my father. I am the new duke.”

The footman in the hallway had taken his hat and gloves, but didn’t leave the marble entry. “What’d he say?”

“He says he’s the new duke. Wants the duchess.”

“Who’s nude? Not Her Grace. Maybe no hat and no gloves, but she ain’t never gone nude, has she, Weldon?”

Weldon had been butler at the Priory when Sloane was a boy. He should have been pensioned off then, except there was no money for a pension. He should have been dead by now. When Aunt Hattie said some of the old servants had been moved to Neville Hall, he’d thought she meant previous servants, not
old
servants.

He raised his voice: “Could you tell Her Grace that her husband is here?”

The footman pulled an antique blunderbuss from behind the door. “Her Grace ain’t no hussy, neither.”

Weldon took Sloane’s hat and gloves from the table and tried to hand them back to the duke, missing him by as wide a mark as Diablo had. “Her Grace isn’t receiving.”

“Like hell she isn’t.” He took the stairs two at a time, barely noticing the silk wall hangings or the gleaming wood. He did manage to register that a Turner landscape hung in the landing, and a small Vermeer at the top of the stairs. Fine, he got his rackety ancestors; she got the masterpieces. Then again, he got the antique furniture; she got the antique servants. Sloane thought he had the better deal.

He started opening doors and shouting until a mob-capped head stuck out of a room down the hall. It was that girl from the vicarage, done up in a gray maid’s uniform with a frilly starched apron. She bobbed him a curtsy. “Your Grace.”

“Ah, Mary, is it? I was beginning to think everyone in the place was either deaf, dumb, or blind. Could you tell Her Grace that I wish to speak to her.”

“I’m that sorry, Your Grace, but my lady isn’t here.”

She didn’t sound a bit sorry to Sloane. In fact, she sounded downright hostile. It was a big house, and he didn’t want to wander around for hours until he found Lisanne, so he smiled and held out a coin. “Could you tell me where I might find her?”

The maid looked at him as if he were a cat offering her a dead snake. Or a live snake. “My lady pays me fine. And, no, I can’t.”

Sloane put the coin back in his pocket and the steel back in his voice. Loyalty to an employer was one thing, standing in his way was another. “I am not leaving until I speak to her.”

Mary crossed her arms over an ample bosom that made Sloane wonder if Kelly had obeyed any of his instructions. Then the brazen chit had the nerve to glare at him when she noticed where his eyes had strayed. “I can’t tell Your Grace where my lady is because I don’t know. She doesn’t tell me anymore. She doesn’t visit the tenants, she doesn’t work in her stillroom, and she doesn’t sit in the library. She never goes near the kitchen nor the dining room, neither, that’s for sure. Most of the time she lays on her bed in here.” Mary jerked her head to the room behind her. “Or she’s gone without telling anyone where.”

St. Sevrin knew where she was. They all knew where she was. The Duchess of St. Sevrin was in those blasted, bloody woods.

Sevrin Woods covered over two hundred acres. That was two hundred acres of thick old growth trees, lakes, meadows, and deer tracks without one recognizable footpath or guidepost. Lisanne could be anywhere.

Before setting out, Sloane stopped in the kitchen to get some bread and cheese to carry along with him. The crone at the stove was so palsied, it was no wonder that the duchess didn’t eat her cooking. Shaking hands didn’t make for accurate measurements, if the ingredients got in the pot at all. The bread was fine, though, hot and crusty; and he had his choice of cheese, cold chicken, or sliced ham. He had his own flask for liquid refreshment, and there would be clear water in the streams. He didn’t dare ask Methuselah’s uncle at the front door to fetch something up from the wine cellar.

Sloane headed for what he thought was the clearing where he’d found Lisanne crying last spring, crying because she had to marry him or lose everything. She wasn’t there, if it was even the same place, but he stayed and called her name. Then he whistled, hoping the dog could hear him and bark. Instead a flock of sparrows started chirping at him from the trees until he threw out some of the bread.

He began to see what she loved about this place. Aside from its natural beauty, the forest had absolutely nothing to do with the woes and worries of the world beyond its borders. The old oak trees were changing their colors, and a bed of orange and yellow leaves already blanketed the ground, leaving no sound but the birdsong and the scurrying of little creatures darting back and forth after his crumbs. He could be anywhere in time, anywhere in place. If there’d been an apple tree, St. Sevrin wouldn’t have been surprised to see Eve peeking from behind its leaves. Druids could have chanted here, or Roman fauns presided at the Bacchanalia. The woods were ageless, unaware, and uncaring about man’s petty concerns.