Leslie Lafoy (37 page)

“It would have gone on all night if Lord Vernon hadn’t borrowed a couple of neckcloths, tied trays to his feet and attempted to ski down.”

Oh, no. “Was he badly injured?”

“Frankly, I couldn’t tell whether he’d been knocked unconscious or finally been overcome by all the whiskey he’d consumed. In either case, the Tribute to Norway was immediately reorganized into Rescue in the Alps with Lord Henden playing the part of the St. Bernard. As a point of information, not a one of them can decently yodel.”

“Dear God.” They’d all gone insane.

“All of which is a minor concern,” Mrs. Gladder assured her crisply. “Of greater importance is the fact that your sisters are a bit worried that you’ve contracted some dread disease and are going to die before the week is out.”

“No!” Oh, God, she hadn’t been thinking of anyone but herself!

“I’ve assured them otherwise. As have Mrs. Miller and Dora. Lady Aubrey, however, contends that Lady Fiona’s crow has given you a vicious flesh-eating parasite.”

Of course. Her irritation surprisingly strong after having lain dormant for days, Caroline snapped, “She’s such a brick.”

“I tend to agree with you.”

“Where was she when all of the Norway nonsense was going on?”

“She retired to her room with a headache immediately after supper.”

“Headache, my Aunt Fanny. She let them run amok in the hope it would drive me out to put an end to it. Where was Haywood during it all?”

“He was entertaining Lady Vernon in the library. But all of that is beside the point,” Mrs. Gladder countered gently. “The point is that it’s time for you to pack your understandable heartache into a trunk and take control of Ryland Castle and the people in it.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Caroline agreed with a sigh. “Even if it’s just for Simone’s and Fiona’s sakes.”

Mrs. Gladder gave her another of her half-frowning smiles. “It’s not quite the resounding commitment I was hoping to hear, but it’s better than nothing. If it helps any to know . . . There’s power to be had in having men come crawling home to discover that they haven’t been missed.”

Caroline snorted. “Dukes do
not
crawl.”

“Well, then it’s probably a good thing that he’s not much better at being a duke than you are at being a duchess.”

Well, that was true. In part, she amended as she remembered the morning he’d walked into her life. “Oh, but when he puts his mind to it,” she replied, her irritation surging back, “he can be . . . ” The memory of his leaving struck her. But this time, unlike every time it had since that afternoon, it didn’t send her reeling into tears and utter misery. She drew a long slow breath as the realization settled in her brain.

“Yes?” Mrs. Gladder quietly pressed.

“Insufferable.”

“Which is simply stupidity,” the housekeeper pointed out, “with a particularly irritating, pompous edge.”

“Drayton’s being a duke,” Caroline said, sitting forward in her chair, her mind turning over everything he’d said as he’d closed the door on their affair. “I can’t believe this. Of all the thickheaded—”

“Tea?”

“Yes, please. If he thinks he’s going to get away with this, he really does need to be informed otherwise. Are those lemon biscuits?”

“Yes,” the housekeeper replied, putting three on the saucer before handing it to her. “This batch is especially good,” she added, taking one for herself.

Caroline washed the delicious cookies down with solid drinks of wonderfully hot tea as she considered what to do. Going to London, grabbing him by the lapels, and shaking him until his teeth rattled had a great deal of appeal. As did simply walking into his bedroom, dropping her nightgown, and letting him apologize in the sweet haze of satisfaction.

Of course that whole plan depended on walking in and finding that some other woman hadn’t dropped her nightgown first. Everything changed if Drayton had decided to
play the duke as a way of ending a relationship that was growing more complicated or restrictive than he wanted. Maybe the change she’d sensed in the carriage had been his having reached the decision to end their affair and go looking for another.

Of course, if he hadn’t been thinking that at all and was simply having another bout of feeling ridiculously noble . . . He’d certainly seemed happy when they’d been together in the stable. And all the days before then, too. Were men prone to changing their minds in a single second? Did they go from contented to desperate to escape in the blink of an eye?

“More tea and biscuits?”

Caroline nodded, handed back her cup and saucer, and decided that she needed an outside, objective viewpoint. “Do you think he loves me?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Gladder instantly replied. “But whether he knows it or not is another matter,” she added, dashing Caroline’s elation. “Do you love him enough to wait for him to figure it out?”

“What if he never does?” she posed, frustrated. “What if he’s old and withered and lying on his deathbed before he smacks himself on the forehead and says, ‘
By George, I love Caroline
’?”

Mrs. Gladder chuckled and handed the teacup back, saying, “It is nice to have you back, madam.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Mrs. Gladder. What if he never realizes it?”

“One day, one hurdle at a time, Lady Caroline,” she answered, rising from the chair. “There will be a crossroads. There always is. When and why, we can’t tell in advance. But you’ll know it when you get there, and the course of action will be clear. In the meantime, there’s
nothing to be done except live life as normally and fully as possible.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Gladder.”

She grinned and headed for the door, saying, “A housekeeper’s work is never done.”

Apparently the daughter of a duke wasn’t allowed a respite, either. She had to bring the guests under some sort of control before they reduced Ryland Castle to rubble, and she also needed to reassure her sisters that she wasn’t going to die anytime soon—all without trying to worry about what she was going to do if Mrs. Gladder was wrong about Drayton and the likelihood of a natural solution presenting itself. Maybe, if she was really lucky, Drayton was already on his way back, an apology in hand, and life would be perfect again before supper.

HIS HEAD THICK AND POUNDING, DRAYTON CROSSED HIS
arms over his chest and considered the wall of his study. Or, more accurately, what was left of it. As holes and piles of debris went, it was pretty impressive and clearly not something he’d dreamed. No, apparently he had actually picked up the madeira decanter and pitched it as hard as he could at the portrait of dear ol’ cousin Geoffrey. And, judging by the headless painting pitched off to the side, hit it dead on. An amazing bit of accuracy considering how drunk he’d been.

He glanced over at the buffet and then back to the holes and the soggy plaster and general wreckage on the floor and furniture beneath it. Yes, there were the shattered bits of the brandy decanter. And those of the one that had held the gin. The port and whiskey and rye decanters were there, too. And the sherry. That had been the last one to go, as he recalled. The one he’d launched while
telling himself that there wasn’t any point to keeping sherry around if Caroline wasn’t going to be there to drink it. After that, he’d thrown anything that hadn’t been nailed down, until his arm had gotten so tired that he’d stumbled upstairs, promising himself that he’d start back up again as soon as it was rested.

He rolled his right shoulder and used his hand to massage the sore muscles as he slowly shook his head and decided that last night was as low as he really could allow himself to go, that two weeks in an alcohol-induced stupor was sufficient. He smiled ruefully. Not that he had anything left to drink even if it wasn’t.

“Lord Aubrey, sir.”

But, he amended, scrubbing his fingers through his aching hair as Aubrey came into the room, if the man intended to stay and press more position papers on him, he could send one of the servants out for more. There was no such thing as being too foggy when Aubrey was around.

“What’s this?”

“My attempt at redecorating. Are you impressed?”

“Oh. Not the wall. This.”

Drayton looked over his shoulder to find Aubrey standing at the desk, a familiar piece of heavy parchment in his hand. “An invitation,” Drayton replied.

“I can see that.”

“Then you can probably also see that it’s from Lord Gladstone and that he’s asked me to join him grouse hunting this weekend.”

“Are you going?”

Well, since the moment had to come sooner or later . . . “Yes.”

Aubrey tossed it back down on the blotter. “Good God, why?”

“I’d like to hear the Liberal position on issues.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” he countered, dropping unceremoniously into one of the pair of leather wingbacks in front of the crackling hearth.

“As a duke,” Aubrey countered, lowering himself into the other one, “the Liberals’ policies are not in your personal financial interests.”

“Whose interests do they champion?”

“Largely everyone’s except those of the titled and the very wealthy.”

“Isn’t that what Parliament is supposed to do?” Drayton asked, trying very hard to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Act for the betterment of the majority of Englishmen?”

“You are a reformer?”

“I have no idea,” he admitted with a shrug of his sore shoulder. He went back to massaging it, as he added, “But I do know right from wrong and that’s how I’m going to decide my vote on issues that come to the House of Lords. I don’t care which party it pleases or displeases.”

“If you vote consistently Liberal, you’ll regret it socially. You’ll be largely cut out.”

As will those around me, which is what you’re really worried about.
“And why would I want to socialize with people whose primary concern is not fairness, but their own self-interest?”

“It’s not what they believe or do, it’s what they are . . . titled. And whether you like it or not, you’re one of them.”

He considered how honest he wanted to be and decided that since it was a morning—no, late afternoon—of new beginnings, that he might as well start with all of his slates clean. “Having a title to flaunt would seem to be the
only thing we have in common,” he replied. “Beyond that . . . No, Aubrey, I’m not one of the divinely chosen. I’m a duke purely because Dinky couldn’t put on a façade long enough to get an heir.”

“I think perhaps it would be better if we continued this conversation when you’ve been sober for longer than an hour.”

“Aubrey, make a note,” he said kindly but firmly. “I’m not willing to surrender my conscience, my sense of right, and human decency under any circumstances—drunk, hungover, or sober.” He gave his friend a couple of moments to mull the pronouncement before he added, “And make another note while you’re at it. We can either agree to disagree at this point and let politics be a subject we don’t discuss, or we can cry quits on our friendship.”

“Politics is important, Drayton.”

So much for hoping Aubrey would choose the easy way out for both of them. “As I’m coming to understand,” Drayton said, slowly nodding. “I’m also coming to understand that a man’s politics is the truest reflection of who he is. His stances on ideas and policies tell you everything you need to know about the depth of his character and his capacity for empathy. Whether he’ll give you the shirt off his back or slit your throat for your shoes.”

“If you think that society expects, much less rewards, integrity in its politicians, you’re incredibly naïve.”

Drayton drew a slow, deliberate breath and unclenched his teeth to ask, “That makes it acceptable to act only in self-interest?”

“And the interests of one’s friends and social class in general. Of course, one shouldn’t be flagrant about it.”

Drayton stared at him as astonishment gave way to momentary disbelief and then slid into a roiling mixture
of disgust and outrage. The self-serving shallow son of a bitch. And Aubrey actually thought he should be one, too. Drayton gripped the arms of his chair as part of his brain suggested that there’d be a great deal of satisfaction in beating the hell out of him, and the other half insisted that he wasn’t worth the effort or the split knuckles.

“Pardon the intrusion, your grace.”

“Don’t apologize, Banks,” he said as he pushed himself to his feet. “You’ve just saved Lord Aubrey’s nose.”

As Aubrey rose and casually put the chair between them, the butler cleared his throat and went on with his duty, saying, “There is a Miss Jane Durbin at the door. She says that you know her and would be willing to receive her.”

Jane? His heartbeat quickened even as he told himself that if something horrible had happened, Jane would have said so at the door. Or just given Caroline’s note to the butler. “Please show her in, Banks.”

“Very good, sir.”

“You know,” Aubrey said caustically, “it might do you a world of good to let her . . . distract you.”

“If you want to leave here with your teeth, Aubrey,” he quietly warned as his anger sparked hotter, “keep your mouth shut.”

The damn fool started to reply, but Jane—dressed in wildly bright purple—sailed across the threshold just in time to cut him off and save his sorry, undeserving ass. “Good afternoon, Miss Durbin,” Drayton said, forcing himself to put his anger aside for the time being. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

“Lord Ryland,” she said, stopping a good arm’s length away and dropping him a quick curtsy. “Lord Aubrey,” she said, giving him a mere nod.

“What’s brought you to back to London?” Drayton
asked. “Surely Caroline hasn’t found another room in need of redecorating.”

“Actually she’s redecorating, your grace.”

“Already?”

Jane winced slightly. “Perhaps the better term would be ‘repairing.’ ”

“I assume,” he drawled, mentally bracing himself, “that you’re going to explain?”

“Several ottomans were torn during the reindeer rides on Tribute to Norway night and have to be reupholstered,” she supplied.

Reindeer rides?

“And, a few nights after that, one of Lord Ablin’s magic tricks didn’t go quite as he’d hoped. Apparently he mixed together two powders he shouldn’t have and when he added the water to his hat . . . Well, he’s lucky to still have both of his hands. His eyebrows will grow back eventually. The parlor ceiling plaster is already repaired, but the furniture under that part of the room has to be re-upholstered, too. And then—”