Bewitching (56 page)

"Not this 'un. This 'un's fer himself."

"The duke isn't here, but I'm the duchess."

He drew his head back and squinted at her, then said in a belligerent tone, "And I be His Majesty, King

George."

Joy looked down at her dirt-caked dress, the muddy hem and shoes, the tangled strands of peat-flecked brown hair that hung over her shoulders, and realized the man had good reason to doubt her claim.

She laughed. "I never said I looked like one. Come. I've been working in the garden. Follow me, please." She marched up the front steps, the driver skeptically following behind her. The front doors opened, Henson holding them, and he gave her a quick bow. "Your Grace."

She heard the old man snort in surprise, then mumble about the oddities of the gentry as he followed her into the drawing room, his cap suddenly and respectfully clutched in his gnarled hands. She quickly wiped her hands on her gown and sat down. "Now what have you brought my husband?"

He stood and gaped at the opulent room for a stunned second. His gaze went from a gold vase to the huge diamond-paned windows to the majestic portrait above the chimneypiece, then up to the painted ceiling. His mouth hung open. So she wasn't the only one. She cleared her throat and he regained his composure only to fumble through his coat pockets for a crinkled envelope, which he handed to her and rocked on his heels as she opened it.

She unfolded the letter and read it, a little stunned herself. She looked up at him. "This states that my husband is to be guardian for someone named Stephen, at the request of Mr. Rodney Kentham upon his death."

"That be the case, and his death were just two days ago."

Concerned and unsure, she sat there for a minute, then explained. "My husband is gone for a few days, but I can send word to him to come home quickly. Who's taking care of Stephen now?"

The man pointed to himself. "He be in the wagon."

Joy jumped up, horrified to realize that a poor child had been left sitting in a wagon full of old broken furniture and other oddments. "We left a child out there alone?" she said over one shoulder as she rushed from the room. Skirts in hand, she ran down the front steps and around the wagon.

Relief washed through her when she saw for the first time the fisherman's helper, a big humpbacked man who appeared to be in his middle twenties. He wore a wide-brimmed oilskin hat and apron and smelled of the sea. He sat hunched on a crooked willow chair in the wagon bed next to a couple of chests with a splintered rocker strapped across the top. His presence meant the child hadn't been left alone. She stood on her toes and peered around the rubble in the wagon, thinking the wee laddie must have been frightened witless. "Where's Stephen?"

The helper didn't answer, so she looked at him. He cocked his large head and watched her from beneath the brim of his hat with the childlike eyes of one of those poor souls whose minds were thwarted from birth. And those shadowed eyes held fear when they met hers. She smiled and tried again more slowly and more calmly. "Where's Stephen?"

He didn't speak.

"The laddie?" she tried, looking into his eyes. "The boy?"

"Yer Grace." The fisherman took a step forward and held out a hand toward the helper. "That be Stephen."

***

Alec rode the stallion down a grade, wondering for the hundredth time what might be the urgent problem at Belmore. He kicked the animal into a lope. His wife had sent the message and that was reason enough to quicken the pace, but he wondered if he should be riding hell-bent homeward or hell-bent out of the country. His mind played havoc with his nerves, imagining all the possible disasters awaiting him— dancing statues, floating objects, broken clocks that fix themselves, riding crops and tambourines. What if she had sneezed up something truly unspeakable? What if she had actually made someone spit frogs? Sweat broke out on his forehead and he rode even harder.

He cursed the foolish weakness that had sent him to seek refuge hunting in the
Somerset
hills. One didn't run away from responsibility. It hadn't taken him long to realize that he couldn't escape the fate that had darkened his existence of late: the fact that he'd married a witch—a witch who could control him with her magic—and he had no weapon with which to defend himself. She could become angry at any time as she had on their last night in
London
, and with a stroke of her hand send him flying around the bloody room. He, the Duke of Belmore, had lost control. Completely.

He wanted to wring her neck. Literally. He wanted to go back in time and change everything. He wanted to order her to be what she should be instead of what she was.

What she was . . .

He thought about that for a pensive moment. She was a Scottish witch, hardly something one could change. Yes, she might not change, but he could teach her control. He knew all about control. Where would he be, if he had not learned control.

Happy . . . a tiny voice said, but he willed it away. Perhaps he was asking the impossible, expecting her to change and be what he demanded. He wasn't even sure what it was he wanted her to be. She could no more change what she was than he could change the way he felt about her—and that was what really disturbed him. He—a man who had trained himself not to feel anything and who prided himself on his lack of emotions—felt something for her, something strong and potent.

An image flashed in his mind—Joy looking up at him through worshipful green eyes as if he had just given her all the stars in the sky. For a brief insane instant he heard her husky voice calling him Alec, her Alec. Something deep within him tightened, as if she had just touched his heart— the one he didn't have.

Until now. Bloody hell.

***

"I'm scared." Stephen sat next to Joy on the stone bench in the garden.

She looked at his bent head and asked, "Of what?"

He worried his large work-callused hands and didn't look up. "This place. I want to go home."

"This is your home now."

He shook his head vigorously. "No. No. It's not home. I don't live here. I live by the sea, with Roddy."

"But Roddy can't take care of you any longer."

"I knowed. He died. I had a dog once. He was my friend. He licked my face. He didn't think I was ugly.

He died too."

"What was his name?"

"Dog."

She smiled, then told him, "I have a weasel."

He looked at her. "You do?"

She nodded. "His name is Beelzebub."

Stephen laughed. "That's a dumb name."

"I call him Beezle."

"That's kinda dumb too. Why didn't you call him Weasel?"

"I don't know. I suppose I never thought of it."

"I did." He was quiet for a minute then asked hopefully, "Does that make me smart? I want to be smart, so people will like me."

She leaned over and looked under the large hat Stephen insisted on wearing whenever he was outside. "You must be smart, then, because I like you."

He stopped worrying his hands and rubbed his palms on his trousers. "I like you too. You don't turn away or say mean things or shout." He looked up but stared straight ahead with a distant look. "Some people look at me, then turn away because I'm ugly and dumb. Roddy never turned away."

"I won't turn away."

Very slowly he raised his shame-filled face and looked at her. She steeled herself against showing any emotion, not wanting to make Stephen uneasy or let him know the turmoil inside her. She wondered what Alec would say when he saw Stephen. She didn't know which man she wanted to protect more, poor, simple Stephen who had suffered so much hurt or her husband who was about to.

Stephen cocked his head and watched her. She gave him another smile of reassurance.

"Do you think I'm ugly?" he asked quietly.

"No. Do you think I'm ugly?"

He laughed. "You're not ugly. You're very pretty. And nice too. You don't turn away or look scared or anything. And you don't shout at me."

"Has someone here shouted at you?"

He stared at his hands and began to wring them again, but before she could say anything else she saw a footman leading Alec's stallion along the path to the stables.
Oh, God.
She took a deep breath and stood up. "My husband, Alec, is home. I want to go speak with him before you meet him. Will you stay here?"

He nodded. "I like it here. It's quiet and no one shouts at me. Do you think Alec will shout at me?"

"Everything will be fine." She patted his hand and smiled, not knowing what was going to happen, but knowing she had to prepare her husband, and if he so much as raised his voice to this poor soul she'd do to him what she had done to that Brummel fellow.

She crossed the garden, looking back over her shoulder once and giving Stephen a wave, feeling calmer when he waved back. She passed Henson and said, "Go get Beezle and show him to Stephen. I'm going to speak to His Grace first. And, Henson?"

"Yes, Your Grace?"

"Stephen is frightened and feels out of place."

"I understand."

"Thank you." She turned and headed for the library. She entered the room and stopped, her throat tightening the second she saw her husband standing in front of the west windows.

As if he could sense her presence he turned. The dark blue eyes that returned her look were filled with suspicion. In a hard voice he said, "Now what have you done?"

She closed her eyes briefly, searching for patience and a calm reply. "I have done nothing."

"Then what was so urgent that you needed to send for me?"

Joy took the envelope from her skirt pocket and closed the distance between them. "Here."

He looked at the envelope, then took it and opened the custody letter. He read it and sank into a chair.

"A child? I've never heard of this Rodney Kentham."

"The ward is not a child."

"What do you mean, he's not a child? The letter says the Duke of Belmore is to be contacted and is to assume responsibility for Stephen should anything happen to this Kentham fellow. I can't be responsible for an adult."

She crossed the room and stood near the east garden doors where Stephen was plainly visible, hunched over the bench. "Come see. He's outside. There."

Alec stood and joined her, looking out the window. "My God . . . ”

"He's frightened and confused. He needs your understanding."

"Understanding? I don't even know who he is."

"Could he be a cousin?"

"My father was an only child, as was his father. My mother came from a small family too, and they're all dead."

"Perhaps you should meet Stephen and then decide what to do." She opened the doors, and Alec followed her down the stone steps and over to the bench.

Stephen still sat there, the hump in his back making him look awkward and defeated. But he was dangling something shiny above Beezle, who was sitting up on his fat haunches and slapping the object with his black-tipped paws. Henson looked up. Alec nodded toward the door and the footman gave a quick bow and left, unnoticed by Stephen.

"Stephen?" He looked up at the sound of her voice. His drooping eyes widened with fear when he saw Alec, and she heard her husband's intake of breath and rushed on, "This is my husband, Alec, the Duke of Belmore."