Christmas with the Duchess (17 page)

“I seek no revenge,” Nicholas said coldly.

“But, surely, Nicholas, you will be staying at Warwick, after all?” Lady Anne said eagerly. “You would not leave us now?”

Nicholas looked at his uncle with revulsion. “I must stay to be in receipt of the duchess’s letter. Do we have a bargain, sir?”

“We do, my lord,” Lord Hugh answered, rubbing his hands together.

“You will write to the duchess immediately, informing her of your change of heart,” Nicholas commanded. He waited until the note was completed, then he tucked it into his pocket. “I will see that she gets it.”

Lady Anne ran to her nephew and kissed him. “You will not be sorry, Nicholas! Octavia will make you the best of wives. I have always thought she was born to be a countess.”

Nicholas looked down into her watery blue eyes. “Right,” he said grimly.

“May I tell her now?” Lady Anne begged. “She will not mind my waking her. She will be overjoyed! Of course, I will explain that it’s to be kept a secret for now.”

“I will walk you out,” said Nicholas, as she whipped a heavy shawl around her shoulders. “You will want to stay with your daughter tonight, Aunt Anne,” he told her when they were out in the hall.

Lady Anne wrinkled her nose. “Heavens! What is that smell?”

“It’s a bucket of excrement, I’m afraid,” he explained. “I am going to put it over the door, and, if all goes to plan, it will fall on your husband when he gets up in the morning. You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”

Lady Anne thought of all the times Lord Hugh had mistreated her. “Not really, no,” she answered.

Nicholas kissed her papery cheek. “Good night, Aunt.”

Early the next morning, Colin found his sister in her sitting room. He was dressed for travel, but Emma was still in her dressing gown, sipping chocolate. “Why aren’t you dressed?” he demanded crossly. “If we’re going, we might as well get an early start.”

“We’re not going,” Emma told him, with a brief smile. “I’ve had a note from dear Uncle Hugh. Apparently, he’s had a change of heart.”

“Vipers don’t have hearts,” Colin retorted.

“No, but they do have pockets,” said Emma. “He’s decided to take the money after all. I daresay, he meant to take the money all along. He just wanted to torture me a bit.”

“Bastard.”

“Quite. Anyway, I’ve sent him a banknote. Harry and Grey will arrive this afternoon, as planned, and we will be here to greet them. I suppose I should be glad that Nicholas stopped me from carrying out my revenge.”

Colin scowled. “What do you mean?”

With a shrug, Emma explained how Nicholas had thwarted her.

“Well, someone rigged a bucket above his door,” said Colin. “The servants are all atwitter this morning.”

“Why, it must have been Otto,” Emma said, baffled. “He never said a word.”

“You’ve seen him this morning?”

She nodded. “I sent him back to bed; he’s quite worn out, poor lamb. Cecily fears he may be coming down with a cold. You know how susceptible he is to infections of the lung.”

Emma’s eyes danced with malicious glee. “As for Bellamy, they found him early this morning, cowering in one corner of the pigsty. The pigs had just finished eating his nightshirt. He was calling for his mama!”

“That’s because she’d just eaten his nightshirt,” said Colin.

Later that morning, the news that a vehicle had passed through the front gates brought the family out onto the steps. Manservants in livery scrambled to line the drive.

An unassuming black gig came into view. It stopped at the foot of the stairs.

The door opened and a clergyman stepped out.

The family was confused. “What on earth—?” Emma murmured to her twin brother. “Isn’t that the vicar?”

Scorning to take the hand that was offered to her, Lady Harriet Fitzroy stepped out of the vehicle under her own power. Wearing only a burlap sack, she walked up the steps with her head high. Her cropped white hair was wet, plastered to her skull. Pausing on the threshold, she gave Colin a look that could have melted iron.

“You’re dead to me,” she said in a low voice.

Colin pretended not to hear.

Lady Susan, meanwhile, had ripped the tale from the vicar’s throat. Arriving at the church that morning, his curate had discovered a burlap sack at the lych-gate. When he unlocked the church doors, he had found Lady Harriet, innocent of all clothing and shivering from the cold. To cover her shame, she had jumped into the baptismal font. The vicar could only suppose it had been an episode of madness. Lady Harriet had refused the clothes offered to her by the vicar’s wife, preferring to wear her burlap. To preserve what remained of the lady’s modesty, the vicar had left his spectacles at home.

Having taken all the fruit, Lady Susan was eager to be rid of the rind. “I’d invite you in, Vicar,” she said in a syrupy voice, “but we are expecting his grace the duke this afternoon.”

She made no mention of Lord Grey Fitzroy, the duke’s younger brother.

“Oh?” said the vicar. “I thought his grace must be home already. Isn’t that the ducal standard flying from the ramparts?”

In order to see what he was talking about, it was necessary for Lady Susan to climb down the steps and stand in the courtyard. “That? That is not the ducal standard,” she trilled. “Unless I miss my guess, those are poor Harriet’s drawers!”

The vicar was sent away with scarcely a word of thanks. Lady Harriet’s drawers were restored to her in short order, and the company returned to the house.

That afternoon, the family gathered again on the front steps, and, as the duke’s carriage approached the house, manservants in livery lined the drive as far as the eye could see.

Nicholas stood with Lady Anne and her daughters, eager to see the two boys reunited with their mother. Emma need never know that he was responsible for her happiness. Indeed, it was better for everyone concerned if Nicholas’s interference remained a secret.

The carriage came to a stop. Amid cheers and applause from the servants, the two boys jumped out. Lord Grey Fitzroy, the younger of the two, ran at once up the steps of polished stone and threw his arms around his mother’s waist. Tall for his age, he was sturdily built with a wing of dark red hair falling over one eye. Emma’s eyes filled with tears as she embraced him. All fear and anxiety seemed to leave her. She looked radiant.

Though he was only thirteen, the duke had more self-awareness. He climbed the steps at a more dignified pace than his younger brother, stopping frequently to return the servants’ salutes with a solemn wave.

At the top of the steps, he kissed his mother formally. Emma knew he considered himself too old for hugs and kisses from his mama, and she controlled the impulse to throw her arms around him. He was nearly as tall as his mother, and, with his steel-blue eyes and curly, ash-brown hair, he looked thoroughly a Grey. “How tall you have become, Harry,” she said. “And Grey, too! You’re practically grown men now! I would hardly have known you. But, then I have not seen you since—since—”

“Steady on, Mama,” said Harry, embarrassed by his mother’s tears. “And I’m to be called Warwick, now, not Harry.”

Emma frowned at him. “Not by me, young man,” she said. “Warwick is what I called your father! I’m still your mother.”

Though this challenge to his authority rankled the young man, Harry was not sufficiently confident to argue with his parent. “All right,” he said reluctantly. “You may call me Harry. But everyone else must call me Warwick.”

“Of course, my love,” Emma said. “Shall we go into the house?”

“I certainly don’t intend to stand outside all day,” he answered her sullenly, “for it looks like rain.”

“So it does,” Emma said pleasantly. “Why don’t you go up to your room for a bit? It will give the servants a chance to get themselves back in order. They did so want to come out to greet you. Then we will have tea in the main drawing room, if that is agreeable.”

“I should be glad of a proper tea,” Harry said eagerly. “The teas at Westminster School were not very generous, were they, Grey?”

“No,” Grey answered shortly.

Harry looked around, setting off a round of curtseying, first from Lady Susan and her daughters and then from Lady Anne and her daughters. “Where
is
my great-uncle?” Harry demanded, descending on poor Lady Anne. “I would thank him for sending my brother and me to Westminster School. It has been a remarkable experience.”

Lady Anne cowered before him. Not even Octavia had the courage to answer.

Nicholas spoke up. “My uncle is indisposed, I’m afraid. Your grace,” he added, sketching a bow.

Cold blue eyes flicked over him. “And who are you, sir?” Harry asked, sounding rather like his uncle, Lord Scarlingford.

Emma hurried over. “This is Lord Camford, Harry,” she said quickly. “He is Lady Anne’s nephew.”

“Oh, I see,” Harry said coldly. “And this means he can
talk
to me, I suppose! Is Uncle Hugh now inviting his wife’s relations to my home? How presumptuous of him.”

Emma felt her face growing hot with embarrassment. “But Lord Camford is very welcome, Harry,” she protested. “He has promised to help me with my decorations this year.” Quickly, she told her son about her plans to erect an enormous
tannenbaum
in the great hall. “I do not think we will be able to manage it without Lord Camford’s expertise.”

“It is superstitious German nonsense,” Lady Susan remarked to her eldest daughter, her loud voice carrying like a bugle. “If the duchess wants to celebrate Walpurgis Night or whatever, perhaps she should go back to her mother’s land. I see no reason for our Christian holiday to be defiled by these pagan rites.”

Forgetting Nicholas, Harry turned on her, demanding angrily, “
What
did you say, Aunt Susan?”

Lady Susan had never realized just how loud she was. She blinked at Harry in surprise. “It’s—it’s nothing the bishop hasn’t said,” she stammered out.

“Well, this is
my
house, not the bishop’s,” he told her. “And I think it sounds charming! A
tannenbaum
will be a very nice treat for the children,” he went on, clearly separating himself from that category. “Lord Camford, you may carry on,” he added as an afterthought, giving Nicholas a vague wave.

“Thank you, your grace,” Nicholas answered correctly, without emotion.

Emma looked at him sharply, but she could detect no mockery.

Harry moved on toward the house, stopping as Julia Fitzroy caught his eye. “Why, Cousin Julia!” he exclaimed, staring at her. “How—how grown-up you look!”

Julia bobbed a saucy little curtsey, delighted but not at all surprised that she had been singled out from amongst her four elder sisters; men were doing that more and more these days. She was wearing a low-cut gown of sea-green muslin. It was far too cold an afternoon for such a flimsy confection, and her rosy nipples stood out stiffly, clearly visible through the thin fabric. “Hello, Cousin Harry! You look very grown-up, too,” she added, looking at him through her lashes.

As alarmed by Julia as Harry was intrigued, Emma hurried both her sons into the house. While the rest of the family waited for the boys in the drawing room, Harry and Grey went upstairs to wash. Hardly aware of anyone else, Emma made sure that all their favorite cakes and confections were among the arrangements. When Colin tried to snatch a petit four from the table, he received a sharp blow across the knuckles from his sister.

“You’re turning into a household angel,” Colin accused her, nursing his injured hand.

“I just want everything to be perfect,” said Emma, pointing out a subpar cake to a servant, who whisked it away.

“Speaking of perfect,” Colin went on as his sister fussed needlessly. “Did you see that little exchange between Harry and Julia?”

“No,” Emma said sharply. “I didn’t. Harry is only thirteen,” she added, almost in the same breath. “He’s far too young for that sort of thing.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Colin. “By the time
I
was thirteen—”

“Pray, spare me the details!” she pleaded.

“Don’t I always spare you the details?” Colin drawled. “I’m just saying that Harry’s growing up.”

“You’re wrong,” she answered. “Harry is just tall. It doesn’t make him a man.”

“Well, here comes the infantry now,” Colin remarked, as Harry and Grey came into the room. Accustomed to being a part of the background, eleven-year-old Grey sat down near his mother, but Harry remained standing.

“There used to be a painting of my mother in this room,” he said, looking around the room. He did not look pleased. “You remember it, Mama. It was your wedding portrait. Where is that painting?”

“I don’t know, Harry,” said Emma, bringing him his cup. “I suppose it was put away.”

“Put away? Put away! By whom, may I ask?” He looked around angrily.

Lady Susan, still smarting from his rebuke earlier, looked down at her hands. Emma quietly sat down next to Grey.

“Who would dare do such a thing? Carstairs!” Harry shouted, catching sight of the old butler at the other end of the room. “Do you know the picture I mean? It was one of my father’s favorites.”

“Yes, your grace,” Carstairs answered placidly.

“By whose authority was it taken away?” Harry demanded.

“Lord Hugh’s, your grace,” Carstairs replied.

A quick glance around the room told Harry that his father’s uncle still had not put in an appearance. “Where is he? Go and fetch him at once.”

“Yes, your grace.”

“And have that painting restored to its proper place.”

“Yes, your grace.”

“And, Carstairs? In the future, you may disregard anything Lord Hugh says to you. Just disregard it. That goes for all the servants.”

“Oh,
very
good, your grace,” said Carstairs.

As he withdrew, Julia sidled up to the duke. “What are you going to
do
to Papa, Cousin Harry?” she asked curiously.

He glanced at her. “Well, if he weren’t your father, I suppose I’d throw him out.”

From her chair a few feet away, Emma noticed that Harry did not insist that his pretty cousin call him Warwick. She hurried to interrupt the tête-à-tête. “You have not yet met your uncle’s wife,” she said, leading him up to Lady Michael.

Harry’s French was of the worst English schoolboy variety, perfectly incomprehensible. “I see they do not teach French at Westminster School,” Lord Michael joked.

Harry’s face reddened. “I remember nothing of my time at Westminster,” he said. “Nothing but the birch!”

Emma gasped. “You were not
beaten,
Harry!”

“Grey got the worst of it,” Harry answered grimly.

Seeing Emma’s white face, Lord Michael said quickly. “Of course you were birched at Harrow, too. I know I was, and so was your father, Harry.”

Harry sniffed. “One doesn’t mind being beaten in front of one’s own class,” he answered. “But, at Westminster, we were surrounded by the sons of bankers and lawyers—
Cits,
” he added, summing up middle-class London with one scathing syllable. “I will not be beaten in front of Cits. No doubt the loathsome creatures have all gone home to their families, gloating of how they saw the Duke of Warwick and Lord Grey Fitzroy birched.”

“Don’t worry, my love,” said Emma. “You will not be going back there.”

“Quite,” Harry said, rather coldly.

“Pity it’s going to rain,” said Emma, after a moment. “I had hoped we could all ride out together to the forest to select the
Wienachtsbaum.
”

“I couldn’t go in any case,” Harry answered carelessly. “Rain or not, I’m going to have a look at my stag this afternoon.”

“Your stag?” Emma echoed.

Harry’s eyes widened. “You haven’t
forgotten,
Mama!” he exclaimed. “It’s only the most important moment of my whole life!”

“Your first stag hunt,” Emma whispered. “Of course I haven’t forgotten,” she lied.

“Not my first
hunt,
” he said impatiently. “My first stag. My first
kill.
I’m afraid I won’t have time for anything else. I selected a beast last year, and I’m eager to get another look at him. He will have grown.”

“He has,” Lord Michael assured him. “The most splendid red hart! I vow, he’s as big as a Cumberland!”

“I trust he has nice horns,” said Emma, a little sourly, because she felt left out.

They both laughed at her. “By that, I think she means antlers!” said Lord Michael. “Yes, Emma! The beast has very nice antlers—eighteen points. And while you have been planning your ball, I have been meeting secretly with the harbourer. We’ve been observing Harry’s stag. He’s magnificent, Harry.”

Harry was staring at his uncle. “Did you say
eighteen
points?” he said breathlessly. “It was
sixteen
points last year!”

“That’s impossible,” said Lord Michael. “It must be another buck, new to the herd.”

“I have to see him,” Harry exclaimed. “An eighteen-pointer! I don’t think I can wait another minute! Who cares if it rains? I don’t regard it in the least.”

“You will when you catch cold and your nose swells up,” Emma protested.

Harry frowned at her. “You mustn’t fuss over me, Mama,” he said irritably. “Go and fuss over Grey, if you must fuss. What do you say, Uncle Michael?”