By Love Undone

T
he yellow-red blossoms of the Lord Penzance rose-bush waved lazily in the light breeze. Humming a counterpoint to the robins singing in the trees behind her, Madeleine Willits snipped three of the perfect blooms and gently dropped them into her basket. And then she pricked her finger.

“Ouch! Blast it.”

At the same time, a stentorian bellow rumbled from the master bedchamber window like a clap of thunder, and she jumped.

“Miss Maddie!” the housekeeper called frantically.

“Good Lord,” Maddie muttered. Dropping her clippers into the basket, she gathered up her skirt and ran for the kitchen entry.

Mrs. Hudson pulled open the door as she reached it, and Maddie shoved the basket into the housekeeper’s plump arms. “What happened?” she called over her shoulder, running through the main hall toward the stairs to the second floor. Curious servants hurried into the hallway, creating obstacles for her to dodge.

“I don’t know, Miss Maddie,” came from behind her. “Garrett was in with him!”

“Garrett!” she called.

The butler appeared at the top of the stairs. Red-faced, he wiped at the thick brown trails of gravy running down the front of his black coat. “It was just the post!” he protested.

Bill Tomkins, closely followed by a tea saucer, exited the bedchamber at high speed behind Garrett. “He nearly killed me that time,” the footman panted, leaning against the bannister.

“You shouldn’t have been in there,” Maddie said un-sympathetically, trying to regain her breath before she stepped into battle. She pulled the shawl from around her shoulders.

“What was I supposed to do, keep polishing the lamps while he’s yowling like a Bedlamite? Scared the devil out of me,” the footman exclaimed, shuddering.

The butler chuckled. “Then you should thank him.”

Sending the servants a warning glance, Maddie fluttered the end of her shawl into the doorway. “We surrender, Mr. Bancroft. The household has been vanquished.”

More rumbling issued from inside the room, followed by the thudding sound of a pillow hitting a wall. “Humph. Stop that nonsense and get your pretty face in here, girl,” Malcolm Bancroft’s irritated voice ordered.

Maddie entered the bedchamber. The remains of luncheon drippily decorated the near wall, while the pillows which had been propping Mr. Bancroft up in bed lay strewn about the floor, leaving her employer flat on his back amid a tangle of bed sheets.

“My, my. Such carnage.” She clucked her tongue.

Awkwardly he lifted his head to pin her with a baleful, dark-eyed gaze. “Bah,” he said, and lay flat again.

Stifling a grin, Maddie began gathering pillows in her arms. “Any interesting news in the post today?”

“I wouldn’t be so blasted clever if I were you, Mad
die. It’s not news you’ll relish, either. Damned stuffed shirts.”

An edge of uneasiness ran through her as she levered him into a sitting position with the help of the pillows. “I see you’ve appropriated my favorite term for the nobility. The new king is coming to visit, I suppose. Shall I have the silver polished—or hidden? You know King George so much better than I.”

As she expected, the mention of George IV distracted her employer from whatever it was that had upset him. “Mad King George, Fat King George. Who’s next—Blind King George?”

Maddie chuckled, relieved as reluctant humor returned to his voice. “Royalty are blind to everything but their purses, anyway.”

Mr. Bancroft snorted. “So they are.” With his weakened left hand he gestured at a badly crumpled paper resting on a slice of toasted bread. “And that particular ailment infects most everyone in England who can lay claim to a title. Hand me that letter, my dear.”

She complied, shaking crumbs off and resisting the urge to read it herself. He would tell her the news. He always did.

Awkwardly he flattened the paper against his chest. “Listen to this, Maddie. And brace yourself.” Malcolm cleared his throat and lifted the wrinkled missive. “‘Brother.’” He stopped and looked up at her, obviously waiting for the significance of that single word to sink in.

Maddie’s insides jolted unpleasantly, and the last pillow slipped from her fingers onto the floor. “The Duke of Highbarrow has finally answered your letter,” she muttered, sinking onto the comfortable chair beside his bed.

“It’s been more than a fortnight since we wrote him. He was bound to answer eventually.” He looked side
ways at her. “I’d actually begun to wonder whether you’d burned the original letter.”

Maddie straightened. “I told you I would send it,” she said, wondering if he knew just how close she had come to ‘accidently’ misplacing the missive in her bedchamber fireplace.

“I know you did.” Her employer smiled briefly, then returned his attention to the letter. “‘Brother,’” he began again. “‘I was away in York on business when news of your poorly timed illness arrived. I have sat to write you immediately upon my return to Highbarrow Castle.’”

“You were right,” Maddie noted, as Mr. Bancroft paused to catch his breath. He tired so easily these days. “He always uses the word ‘castle,’ doesn’t he?”

“At every opportunity. To continue, ‘Victoria sends her wishes for a complete recovery, though as you know I really don’t give a damn one way or the other.’”

“My word, he’s awful.”

“‘I am planting my crop at Highbarrow Castle at the moment. Otherwise, despite your past errors of judgment, I would make an effort to call upon you at Langley Hall.’”

“Of course,” Maddie and Mr. Bancroft agreed in skeptical unison.

All she knew of the duke were tales of his monumental stuffiness and arrogance, and Maddie let out her breath in a silent sigh of relief. He wasn’t coming. “So that’s that, then,” she said, rising. “Hardly enough to warrant frightening me half to death, though. Shame on you.”

“That’s the good news, I’m afraid.”

Slowly Maddie sat down again. “Oh.”

“Now please remain calm.”

She nodded. “Just as you did,” she teased.

“Hush. ‘However,’” he resumed, “‘as getting the
crop in at Langley is of paramount importance, I have spoken with Quinlan. He has agreed to journey to Somerset to oversee planting and to tend to the estate during your recovery. He follows immediately upon this letter, and should arrive at Langley on the fifteenth of the month. Yours, Lewis.’”

Maddie gazed out the window. The lovely spring morning, the first without rain in three days, had become a disaster. Worse than a disaster. She took a deep breath. “I assume His Grace is referring to Quinlan Ulysses Bancroft?”

Her employer nodded, a sympathetic grimace touching his gaunt face. “Afraid so. The Marquis of Warefield himself.”

Maddie cleared her throat. “I see.”

He reached out and squeezed her fingers. “I’m dreadfully sorry, my dear. You are acquainted with him, I suppose?”

She shook her head. “Thankfully not. I believe he was in Spain during my…visit to London—if you could call it that.” Maddie frowned at the memory.

“It wasn’t your fault, my girl,” Malcolm soothed.

She eyed him fondly, wondering who was supposed to be comforting whom. “You’re the only one who thinks so. None of them—not
one
of them—saw anything but that stupid kiss, and that stupid man trying to shove his hand down my dress. They didn’t care that I wanted nothing to do with it, or with that awful scoundrel Spenser. And I want nothing to do with London society, ever again.”

“Well, Quinlan wasn’t there, so don’t worry yourself. He wouldn’t say anything, anyway. Wouldn’t be polite, you know.”

“I’m not worried.” Maddie sat up straighter, pulling her fingers free from his comforting grip. “Nor am I the least bit faint of heart, Mr. Bancroft.”

He chuckled. “I never said you were.”

“It’s merely that I’m…annoyed.” Ready to throw a screaming fit would be closer to the truth, but she’d had the feeling lately that her peaceful days were numbered. Once the letter to Highbarrow Castle had gone out, someone had been bound to reply.

And even though she didn’t know the Marquis of Warefield, she knew
of
him. Quinlan Ulysses Bancroft was the very pink of the
ton
, a favorite of the new king, the bluest of blue bloods, the epitome of propriety and dignity. She loathed him without ever having seen his pampered, spoiled, self-important visage. He was one of
them
.

“Nobility” might be what society called them, but from her experience, the word had nothing at all to do with their characters. “I thought we informed His Grace that you had someone tending to Langley during your illness.”

“You didn’t expect him to care about that, did you? He owns Langley Hall, my dear; I only manage it for him. And he will take whatever steps are necessary to preserve his considerable monetary well-being, with or without my consent. You know that.”

She sighed. “Yes, I know that. Even so, he might have asked whether you wanted assistance before he foisted his son off on you.”

Unexpectedly, Mr. Bancroft laughed again, rare color touching his pale cheeks. “I don’t believe Quinlan allows himself to be ‘foisted’ on anyone.”

“How noble he must be,” Maddie said unenthusiastically.

Her employer narrowed his eyes, suspicion touching his expression. “Just remember, my dear, the less trouble you make for him, the shorter and less painful his visit is likely to be.”

A flash of guilt ran through her. After all, this deuced
marquis was Mr. Bancroft’s nephew, and it had been at least four years since they had seen one another. Even though she might detest him and the rest of the damned aristocracy, she knew all too well how lonely Malcolm must feel being cut off from his family.

So, little as she liked Warefield’s coming, she had no intention of stamping her feet and throwing a tantrum. Not in front of her employer, anyway. “I shall behave,” she assured him.

He smiled. “I have no doubt that you will.”

“As long as he does,” Maddie added.

“He will. I already told you, he’s the epitome of good manners.”

“I am bereft of words at the very idea of setting eyes upon his illustrious personage.”

“Maddie,” Bancroft warned with a slight grin. He pulled himself into a more upright position, grunting with effort as his still legs hampered the movement. “Best send Mrs. Iddings down to the village and have her spread the word.”

“So the local folk can flee into the hills, I suppose?”

“Our neighbors will never forgive me if I don’t give them advance notice that the Marquis of Warefield is coming to Langley. An actual title appearing in this part of Somerset is rarer than a camel passing through the eye of a needle.”

She sighed. “They will be beside themselves with excitement. I daresay I have no idea how I will contain my feelings, myself.”

“Do try, won’t you?”

Maddie smiled. “Of course. But only for you.”

He looked at her fondly, with an understanding her own father had never possessed. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She stood. “I’ll bring you up some more tea.”

“And peach tarts, if you don’t mind. My luncheon seems to have met with an accident.”

She glanced over her shoulder and chuckled in amusement. “Lucky we kept some sweets in reserve, isn’t it?”

“Bah.”

Maddie apprised Mrs. Iddings of the Marquis of Warefield’s imminent arrival and then sent the cook down to Harthgrove to purchase vegetables and gossip away the afternoon. After bringing Mr. Bancroft his replacement luncheon, Maddie escaped to the garden potting shed, where she could bang about and curse without being overheard. Stupid, stupid noblemen, always showing up where they weren’t wanted! Or needed.

“Madeleine?”

“Dash it,” Maddie muttered, wiping her hands against her pelisse. “In here, Mrs. Fowler,” she called.

She’d hoped to have until tomorrow before the neighbors came prying for information. Apparently Mrs. Iddings’s gossip was even more efficient than Mr. Bancroft had anticipated. Smoothing the annoyed expression from her face, she stepped out of the shed.

“Oh, there you are, Maddie.” Jane Fowler was wearing her favorite visiting dress; no doubt she intended to carry her news to every home along the lane once she’d pried it out of Maddie.

“Good afternoon.”

“I should say so.” Mrs. Fowler sighed happily, her rounded cheeks dimpling. She plucked a stray leaf from Maddie’s hair. “I hear that we’re to have an important guest in Somerset. I am quite beside myself.”

“Oh, well, you—”

“My goodness,” Mrs. Fowler continued, clapping her hands together, “a marquis.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice, even though there was no one about to hear them except for the finches. “And I hear that he’s very handsome, and that he has
twenty thousand a
year
. Can you imagine? Twenty thousand pounds a year!”

Swallowing her annoyance at such awestruck pointlessness, Maddie nodded and started back toward the house at a brisk pace. Bad enough she had to host Warefield without having to talk about him as well. “You seem to know a great deal about him, Mrs. Fowler.”

“Mrs. Beauchamp does. Her cousin is Baron Montesse, you know.”

“Yes, I had heard that.”
Endlessly and repeatedly
.

“How long will he be staying at Langley?”

“I really don’t know. With the Season starting soon, I’m certain it can’t be too long.”

Mrs. Fowler sighed reverently. “Ah, yes, the Season.”

The worshipful look on her face made Maddie want to laugh. “Have you told Lydia and Sally the news?”

“They were the ones who told
me
. Such good girls, they are. And Lydia has become quite proficient at the pianoforte, you know.”

“Yes, I d—”

“Oh, I know Sally isn’t quite out yet, but she
is
seventeen. Here in the country, so very far from London, Lord Warefield couldn’t expect us to stand on such strict ceremony, don’t you think?”

From what she’d heard of the marquis, he stood upon strictest ceremony at all times. “Of course not,” she agreed, hiding her sly smile. If anything could encourage Warefield to shorten his stay at Langley, it would be the Fowler girls.