Loving a Lost Lord (19 page)

“Wisdom is something you have a great deal of. In London, I hope to slay the dragons of my mind. Then—we shall see what comes next.” He caressed her cheek tenderly with the back of his hand, then lifted her from his lap—not easy since he was sitting—and set her back on her seat. “You look misleadingly demure.”

“It's my specialty.” She locked her gloved hands together. Demurely.

A few minutes later they pulled up in front of the Bull and Anchor. The other chaise awaited with Adam's friends lingering in the open air as long as they could. The men climbed in and followed to Julia's cottage, which was on the way out of town.

Mariah climbed out of the coach and walked to the cottage, Adam beside her. Julia opened the door, bonneted and ready to go. Like Mariah's, her luggage consisted of a small trunk and a bandbox. Adam scooped up the trunk. “I'll take this for you.”

Julia gave him a bemused glance. “I didn't know dukes carried baggage.”

“I'm sure I will grow in arrogance as I approach London,” he said solemnly. “But for now I prefer to be useful.” He turned and headed to the chaises.

Mariah waited as Julia locked the door. “Are you having second thoughts?”

“Second, third, fourth, and fifth,” Julia said wryly as they walked to the chaises. “But—I'm glad to be going. There is someone I must see before it's too late.”

“We shall have each other for support. We'll need it, too, I suspect.”

When they reached the chaises, Adam introduced Julia to his friends, who had climbed out to meet her. Masterson was his usual affable self and Kirkland was impeccably polite, but Randall frowned and gave Julia a stare that would freeze the whiskers off a badger. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Bancroft,” he said icily.

“The pleasure is mutual,” Julia said, not raising an eyebrow. She allowed Adam to help her into the chaise and Mariah followed. For Mariah, Adam had a special hand squeeze, but he then turned away and told his friends that he would not selfishly keep two beautiful ladies to himself and asked who would like the first chance to ride with them.

“What was that about?” Mariah inquired in a whisper as the men discussed seating arrangements. “Do you know Randall?”

Julia shook her head. “We've never met. He obviously took an instant dislike to me.”

Mariah gave a ladylike snort. “Randall doesn't think highly of females. He's convinced I'm a fortune hunter, trapping Adam into marriage.”

“But you had no idea who Adam was when you found him.”

“Randall is not a man to let facts interfere with a good snarl.”

They shared a smile. Masterson opened the door and joined them in the carriage. “I'm the lucky man who has won the company of two lovely ladies.”

Mariah laughed. “We should have let Bhanu come to balance out the loveliness. Though, to be honest, I find her beautiful.”

“If you can love an ugly dog enough to find beauty, you shouldn't waste yourself marrying a handsome man like Ash,” Masterson said promptly. “Better you should ally yourself with a man like me who needs your gift of ignoring reality.”

For an instant she saw something in his gaze that made her think he was at least half serious, but the moment passed. “By the time we reach London, we shall all be heartily tired of the sight of each other,” she said.

“And bruised and stiff and weary of traveling,” Julia added.

“But at least we'll be uncomfortable at a high rate of speed rather than a slow one,” Masterson pointed out.

They all laughed. It was a good start to a long journey.

Adam had assumed that Ashton House would be a substantial town house. Not a freestanding Mayfair mansion surrounded by gardens and a high stone wall topped with formidable spikes. “Good Lord,” he said as they pulled up to the high iron gates. “This is rather more than I expected.”

Kirkland, sitting on the opposite side of the chaise, said, “Didn't any of us mention that it's the largest private house in London? It's quite nice, actually. There's plenty of room for your friends, so it often seems like a particularly fine hotel.”

“I always stay at Ashton House when I'm in London. You've given me my own rooms, actually,” Randall said. “Is that still acceptable?”

“Of course.” Adam studied the sprawling mansion. “The place is so large I could go days without seeing you.”

The journey had gone as smoothly as one could hope, with endless changing of horses and only one instance of being bogged down in mud during a drenching rainstorm. They had stayed at good inns, usually opting for three rooms, with the women sharing one and the men the others. But days in a carriage allowed too much time to think.

No doubt he could deal with London and its demands, though the likelihood that someone had tried to kill him added a little too much excitement. While the subject was never mentioned, he was very aware that his friends kept a sharp eye on their surroundings. Since Masterson had written ahead to tell the Ashton household and cousins that he was returning, it wasn't impossible that a determined assassin might be able to deduce their route. It was another good reason not to ride in the same chaise with Mariah. If he was shot, at least she should be safe.

But that meant they'd almost never seen each other. Her absence had ached like a missing tooth. The only times he saw her was when all six of the group had dined together in the private parlors of various inns. No matter how long the day, Mariah had been calm and unruffled and uncomplaining.

Julia Bancroft had been an equally good traveler. Though she was quiet, her presence had been soothing. Everyone liked her but Randall, who stiffened whenever she was around. He'd never shared the women's chaise. With Masterson and Kirkland to carry the conversation, their dinners had been pleasant.

After dining, the ladies had withdrawn to their shared rooms. Adam hadn't been alone with Mariah since the carriage ride from Hartley Manor to the village. Surely this great sprawling barracks of a house would allow them some privacy. Not that he wanted to ravish her—well, he did, actually, but he wouldn't—but he would love to sit and drink tea and perhaps hold her hand. To relax with her as he couldn't with anyone else.

A liveried gatekeeper, elderly but sharp eyed, emerged from the gatehouse to inspect the two muddy yellow bounders. The driver of Adam's carriage announced grandly, “The Duke of Ashton and friends.”

The gatekeeper must have been informed of Adam's survival, but his face still worked for a moment as he glanced into the chaise to confirm Adam's identity. “Welcome home, your grace.” He bowed deeply, then opened the gate.

As they drove up the sweeping arc of driveway, Randall said, “We're back to the land of fussing servants and social obligations.”

“Complain if you like,” Kirkland retorted, “but I for one will be glad to have fresh clothing and my valet to dress me.” He glanced down at his dark green coat and buff pantaloons, which looked well lived in. “I shall tell Jones to burn what I'm wearing. But traveling rough does make one appreciate the comforts of civilization.”

“Traveling rough is the retreat to Corunna,” Randall said dryly. “A journey to Scotland is merely tiring. Though I'll admit that sharing quarters with you and Masterson for weeks was punishing in its own way.”

As Adam and Kirkland laughed, the chaise pulled up under a wide porte cochere. A young footman with powdered hair rushed outside, his face beaming with excitement. As he opened the carriage and pulled down the steps, Adam said, “I wonder how large the welcoming committee will be.”

Randall grimaced. “Large. Though no one knew the exact time of arrival, by the end of the afternoon, all of fashionable London will know and half of 'em will be calling to see with their own eyes that you're alive.”

“And that's not counting the staff waiting inside,” Kirkland added.

The second chaise halted behind theirs and the footman assisted Julia and Mariah out, followed by Masterson. Adam offered his arm to Mariah. “Shall we enter the lion's den?”

Her eyes smiled reassurance as her hand curved under his elbow. “Lead on, your grace.” It was the first time they had touched since Hartley. The effect was…energizing.

Despite his trepidation on the journey, he found he was now eager to immerse himself in his life. Surely here he would reclaim what he had lost.

His party entered the vast, echoing spaces of a three-story-high entry hall. It was full of servants. Dozens of them.

When he and Mariah appeared, there was a tidal wave of movement as the females curtsied and the males bowed. Everywhere he looked were beaming smiles. These people he didn't recognize were genuinely glad to see him alive. He noticed several pretty housemaids and hoped he'd been gentleman enough not to have molested them.

Three senior servants approached. The middle-aged woman had to be the housekeeper, immaculately dressed and radiating confidence. The man to her right was an equally immaculate butler. Adam's friends had briefed him on the senior staff, so he knew that the couple were Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. Strange how he remembered how a large household was run, but not his own life.

The other man was…very different. Though well dressed, he had the burly build and scarred face of a street fighter. Randall murmured, “The fellow on the right is Wharf, your valet. I should have told you more about him.”

Too late. The trio reached him and said, “Welcome home, your grace,” in near perfect unison. He wondered if they had practiced.

“It's good to be here,” he said. “You know most of my friends, I believe, but you haven't met Miss Clarke and Mrs. Bancroft. They will be staying at Ashton House. Take very good care of them.”

“Of course, your grace.” Mrs. Holmes looked thoughtful. “The blue suite has two bedrooms connected by a sitting room. Would that be satisfactory?”

“Of course,” Mariah murmured. Julia nodded agreement. Both of them wore expressions of calm acceptance, as if they stayed in ducal residences regularly. He was amused, but didn't like the reminder of what a good actress Mariah was.

“Mr. Randall, your usual rooms are ready.” The housekeeper's gaze returned to Adam. “If it suits your grace, luncheon will be served in an hour, so there will be time for you and your guests to freshen up.”

Since breakfast had been at dawn, Adam was hungry and he assumed his friends were, too. Masterson and Kirkland planned to go on to their London homes, but at the least, he owed them a meal now that he had resources again. “That would be very good, Mrs. Holmes. Masterson, Kirkland, will you stay?”

“I should be happy to spend the next hour in your library with a pile of newspapers and a glass of sherry,” Kirkland said. “Not moving!”

Masterson laughed. “I'll join you there.”

The ranks of servants dispersed, Adam's friends being led off in different directions. Turning to his valet, Adam said, “I'm in need of a change of clothing myself. If you would guide me to my rooms?”

“Of course, sir.”

So far, so good. As he followed Wharf upstairs, Adam wondered what the afternoon would bring.

 

Mariah left a maid unpacking her garments and opened the connecting door to the sitting room. Julia was already there, having left another maid unpacking behind her. Closing the door so they were private, Mariah exclaimed, “Have you ever seen such a place, Julia? One assumes that dukes have wealth, but this place would put Carlton House to shame!”

“Carlton House is more grand, but less welcoming, at least from what I've seen.” Julia drifted across the room and looked out a window at the gardens.

Mariah stared. “You've been in Carlton House?”

“Many years ago. But it's not a rare privilege,” Julia said with a smile. “For every aristocrat who is an invited guest of the Prince Regent, there are dozens of servants and workmen and laundresses.”

Mariah doubted that Julia had visited the royal residence as a laundress, but she didn't pursue the subject. “I'm looking forward to seeing the sights with you. But first I must locate my lawyer and pay a call.”

Julia settled in one of the silk-covered chairs. “We both have tasks to accomplish, but I'm sure there will be time for touring as well.”

Seeing Julia's strained face, Mariah said softly, “Judging by your expression, your business will be difficult. I will gladly accompany you if that would help.”

Julia shook her head, but her expression eased. “No need. I'm sad, but this is a very common sort of grief. I'm going to visit my grandmother. She is old and frail, and this visit might be my last chance to see her. She has lived life long and well, which makes it easier to accept that soon she will be gone. But I want to see her, and that wouldn't have happened if you hadn't persuaded me to come to London. Thank you.”

“The benefit is mutual.” Mariah sat on the elegant sofa opposite Julia and contemplated the elaborate crown moldings and the handsome paintings. This sitting room and her bedroom were the loveliest places she'd ever stayed.

Seeing Ashton House made her realize just how wide the gap was between her and Adam.

Unbridgeably wide.

As Wharf opened the door to the ducal suite, Adam said, “You were told that the head injury I suffered has damaged my memory?” After the valet nodded, Adam continued, “I remember very little of my previous life. That includes you.” His eyes glinted with amusement. “This would be an ideal time for you to tell me that I had promised you an increase in wages.”

“No, sir!” Wharf looked shocked as he closed the door to the corridor. They entered a spacious sitting room with several doors opening from it. “I'm already paid most generously.”

And the man was too honest to be amused by the idea that he might take advantage of his owner's disability. That spoke well for him. “I hope that in time my memories will return, but for now, I'd prefer that stories of my weakness not circulate. It will be impossible to keep such a thing entirely secret, but the less said the better. Since you would be a primary source of such information, I must hope you're discreet.”

Wharf looked even more shocked. “I never, ever talk about your grace's personal business. And most certainly not now.”

Better and better. “You don't fit the usual image of a valet. How did you come into my employment? What is your history?”

Wharf's expression became wary. “I was born in the East End. My da was a stevedore. Died when a hogshead of sherry fell on him. My mother was a washerwoman and couldn't support us all, so I enlisted in the army soon as I looked old enough. I gave my mum the bounty to help care for the young ones.”

The London accent was now explained. Adam crossed the sitting room and opened a door to a bedroom containing a massive canopied bed draped with heavy blue and silver brocade hangings. “How old were you in truth?”

“Thirteen, but big for my age. Some who join up are scrawny, so I looked well enough grown to pass.”

Adam walked across the bedroom, Wharf trailing behind. Another door opened to a huge dressing room full of shirts, breeches, and coats hanging on specially designed fixtures. Boots, hats, and other male paraphernalia were neatly laid out on shelves. “Good God, I actually wear all these garments?”

“Your grace is known for impeccably fine dress, neither too flamboyant nor too conservative,” the valet said rather pompously.

“I presume I owe much of my reputation to you.” Adam fingered a fine cotton shirt, one of many that hung on individual wooden frames the width of a man's shoulders. A door on the far side of the room led to Wharf's own neat bedroom, which had a separate exit to the corridor. “How did you come to be my valet?”

“I was invalided out of the army after being wounded and coming down with a putrid fever. My mate, Reg, and I were both sent home to recover if we could,” Wharf explained. “Back in London, we were attacked by a gang of drunken cutthroats. Both of us were beat up pretty bad before Major Randall came along and drove them off.”

“By himself?” Adam asked. “How many were there?”

“Reg and me took down four, but there were four still left.” Wharf looked wistful. “If we'd been in fighting trim, Reg and I could have handled them, but not the way we were then. Still, it was a rare treat to see the major in action.

“He thought ex-soldiers shouldn't starve on the streets, so he brought the two of us to you and asked if you could give us work. I would have been happy to scrub the kitchen floor like a scullery maid as long as I was fed and back in England, but you did better. You put Reg in the stables since he's good with horses. You told me you needed a new valet, and would I be interested in learning the trade. When I said yes, you hired a valet from an agency to teach me the tricks of maintaining a gentleman's wardrobe.”

Maybe Adam at that earlier time had sensed that it was good to value loyalty over credentials. “I must have liked you to have you trained for the job.”

“That, plus even though I was half starving and built like a prizefighter, my clothes always looked good,” Wharf said wryly. “I'm not built to be fashionable, so it's been a rare treat to valet you.” His gaze flicked over Adam's clothing. “What you're wearing isn't bad, but not up to our usual standards.”

Adam turned to look his valet in the eye. “What sort of relationship did we have? I didn't take you to Scotland with me. Why not?”

Wharf's face tightened. “My mother was dying and you told me to stay in London with her. She passed just before the news of your accident reached us.”

“My condolences on your loss,” Adam said quietly. “I would have been a brute to demand you leave under such circumstances.”

“Most lords wouldn't have thought beyond their own convenience,” Wharf said bluntly. “I was grateful at the time that you didn't insist I go, but maybe if I'd been with you on the
Enterprise,
you wouldn't have been hurt so bad.”

“Or maybe you would have died. There is no point fretting over the past.” Adam studied the valet's scarred face. “We appear to have had a relationship that is…less formal than is usual between a gentleman and his valet.”

“I've always known my place, sir,” Wharf said, choosing his words carefully. “And I hope I've never been encroaching. You're the finest gentleman in London, and I don't say that just because I work for you. But—you and I, we're both a little different from the rest. I think maybe that affects how we deal with each other.”

“I presume my difference is in my Hindu blood.” Adam examined the rack of beautifully tailored coats, the colors a rich, dark rainbow. “What is your difference? The fact that you were not bred to service?”

Wharf flushed a deep, unhappy crimson. “There's that, but also…I…I should tell you first, before someone else pulls you aside and accuses me 'n' Reg of having a…an unnatural relationship.”

An unnatural relationship? That must mean sexual. From somewhere in the depths of his mind, Adam recalled that such a connection was a capital crime. No wonder Wharf looked so upset about mentioning the matter. “Do you?”

“Yes, sir.” Wharf's voice was a bare whisper. “We can leave if you don't like it.”

Having an “unnatural relationship” might explain why Wharf and his mate were attacked by a gang of angry men. Adam wondered exactly what two men might do together, but this was not the time to ask. “Did I know about this before?”

The valet nodded.

“I presume the knowledge didn't bother me?”

Wharf shook his head.

“Then I don't know why it should bother me now.” He turned back to the clothing. “Will you choose an appropriate luncheon outfit? I am overwhelmed by choices.” He glanced down at himself. “My present outfit was borrowed. It must be cleaned and repaired for return.”

“Very good, your grace.” Wharf's voice vibrated with relief.

Adam left the dressing room and tried another door. This one was locked. He frowned. “Why can't I enter here?”

“The room is a…a private study of yours. That's why you lock it.”

“Do you know where the key is?”

The valet nodded. “I clean the room now and then because you don't want the maids going in.” He crossed to an elegant and complicated desk, pulled out one of the drawers, and removed a key from the underside. “This is where the key is kept.”

Adam examined the carefully constructed secret compartment. “Apparently I am serious about no one else entering.”

“Very serious indeed.” Wharf handed him the key. “I'll prepare a change of clothing for the luncheon while you go inside.”

Glad the valet gave him privacy, Adam unlocked the door, wondering what his old self was so secretive about. He entered the room—and found himself in a Hindu shrine. The air was scented with incense, and light came from high windows that illuminated altars supporting exquisitely carved and painted statues of deities. Richly colored fabrics swept from the center of the ceiling and draped down the walls, making the room feel like an exotic tent. The brass oil lamps matched those of his dreams.

Opposite the door was the elephant-headed god again.
Ganesha.
He remembered the names easily now, and their attributes. Ganesha was a popular fellow, the remover of obstacles and lord of beginnings. The patron of arts and sciences and wisdom. On his altar lay a nosegay of flowers so dried out that the variety couldn't be identified.

Adam lifted the bouquet, petals drifting to the floor. If Wharf came here only to clean, Adam must have left these flowers as an offering before traveling to Scotland. What had he prayed for? Success for his steamship, or something less obvious?

This space was deeply calm, like a meditation garden but more so. He turned to his right and recognized Lakshmi, the consort of Vishnu and goddess of beauty, love, and prosperity. Rather like Aphrodite or Venus. Lakshmi was the essence of femininity who was celebrated during Diwali, a festival of lights. Mariah looked nothing like this dark-haired deity, yet she possessed that same profoundly female essence.

There were also altars to Shiva the Destroyer, the dancing god of annihilation and rebirth, and Vishnu, the supreme being who stood above all others. The gods of his dreams. Feeling a sense of homecoming more powerful than when he had entered Ashton House, Adam turned in a circle, the thick carpet muffling his steps.

This room represented the secret, Hindu part of himself. When he was forcibly removed from his mother and taken to England to be trained for his inheritance, he had instinctively realized that to stay sane, he must seem English. He couldn't eliminate his dark skin, but he could talk like a lord, dress like a lord, perform the activities of a lord. Hence those handsome garments hanging in the next room.

Had anyone seen this private shrine except Wharf? No. Adam knew immediately that even the friends who had dropped everything and traveled to Scotland in search of his drowned body were unaware of this hidden sanctuary. He had trusted no one with this part of himself except the valet, who had reasons of his own to hold his tongue.

Struggling with thoughts he couldn't quite clarify, he skimmed his fingertips along the bronze wheel of fire that contained the dancing Shiva. There was a deep, complicated connection between his amnesia and the way he had hidden so much of his inner nature. But he wasn't sure how he could make himself whole again.

He remembered how he had attended church with Mariah in Hartley, and how the services had felt natural and uplifting, rather like this room. He walked out of the shrine, locking the door behind him. Wharf was in the dressing room brushing a dark blue coat that didn't need the attention. “Wharf, did I consider myself a Christian?”

The valet gave him a straight look. “You told me once that you were Christian and Hindu both, but that you didn't think most people would understand.”

That surprised a laugh from Adam. “Probably not. I had best continue to keep that to myself. You are the only person who knows about my…my private temple?”

“I believe so, sir.”

Their gazes touched for a moment before Adam looked away. They each had their secrets and respected those of the other man. “I gather that coat is what I shall wear when I join my guests again?”

“Yes, sir. Your other garments are also laid out. I thought morning wear, since your friends have not had the opportunity to change from their travel clothing.”

In a few minutes, Adam was dressed as the Duke of Ashton, with flawlessly cut coat, waistcoat, and breeches. He had to admit that the effect of superb tailoring was impressive. His top boots gleamed and he'd found that his fingers remembered how to tie a cravat fashionably. Feeling that he knew himself better than when he'd arrived, he asked, “How do I find my guests?”

“I'll show you the way, sir. The house takes some learning.”

With Wharf's guidance, Adam reached the small dining room at the same time as his other guests. Mariah was laughing at something Julia said, and she looked so lovely and lovable that his heart constricted as if squeezed by a fist.

He had been upset by her false claim they were married, but his hidden Hindu shrine was proof that he'd been less than truthful in his own life. It was still too early to make a final commitment—he had too many pieces of himself to rediscover. But he was ready to accept that he wanted to be with her always. Giving her a private smile, he took her arm. “Shall we see what the kitchens of Ashton House have provided?”

“Surely it will be very fine,” she murmured, eyes alight as she saw his expression.

“The food will be better than fine. You have the best chef in London, Ash.” Kirkland offered his arm to Julia. “Our reward for all those dinners along the road.”

The butler, Holmes, caught Adam's gaze, then flicked his glance toward one end of the table to show Adam where to sit. He pulled out the chair to his right for Mariah, saying softly, “We must talk later. There's something I want to show you.”

He would reveal his hidden shrine, because if they were to have a future, she must understand and accept the part of himself that he'd buried. But he didn't anticipate a problem. Mariah was as tolerant as she was beautiful. Their gazes met for a moment, and from her smile, she recognized what he couldn't put into words in public.

Adam was about to seat himself when three people swept into the dining room. One was the Ashton footman who had admitted Adam earlier. At his heels were a well-dressed, fair-haired man around Adam's age and a handsome woman of middle years. Adam stared at the young man's green eyes. Not as dark as his own, but definitely green. Could this be…?

“Mrs. Lawford and Mr. Lawford,” the footman announced breathlessly.

Adam's cousin and aunt—the closest relations he had. The young man's face broke into a smile. “Ashton, it really
is
you!”

He rushed forward and caught Adam's hand. Under his breath, he said, “I'm your cousin Hal, you know.”

Just as quietly, Adam said, “I wasn't sure. Thank you for confirming that.” He shook Hal's hand, thinking that his cousin seemed genuinely happy to see him alive.