Loving Lady Marcia (40 page)

Aislinn’s face fell. “Do you think so?”

“Yes. I can see you’re still troubled by not having a frank talk yourself with the earl. And it would be good for Joe to see that just because you’re not working in their household doesn’t mean you’re gone forever.”

Aislinn brightened. “I’d love that. Thank you, my lady!”

Marcia smiled. “You’re welcome. I’ll get a footman to retrieve your things from the carriage and send it on its way.”

“Oh!” Aislinn’s cheeks turned red. “That reminds me. I brought your mail. When we went through the village, they gave it to us and asked us to carry it with us. I’m sorry—I was so nervous when I arrived, I left it on the seat.”

“That’s perfectly fine,” Marcia said, but she felt a strange dread seize her. She’d been so looking forward to hearing word from the Dublin schools, but now …

She wasn’t sure what to do if one of them asked her to interview.

She rang for the butler. When he appeared, she instructed him to retrieve the mail in the carriage and to bring it, along with tea and cakes, to the drawing room. Then she turned to Aislinn. “I can’t wait to hear your stories about taking care of Joe. Let’s sit again, shall we?”

So they both sat. This time, the tension had all gone from Aislinn’s face. She’d said what she’d come to say. Now she could enjoy herself.

“Well, if we start from the beginning”—Aislinn settled herself back on the sofa pillows—“I don’t know who Joe’s mother was.”

Marcia had always wondered herself.

“But I do know that when Lord Chadwick brought Joe home as an infant,” Aislinn went on, “we were all very worried.”

“Why?”

The girl looked about the room. “I don’t know if I should say.”

“Then you shouldn’t,” Marcia replied gently, although she was dying of curiosity. “If you break someone’s confidence without permission—”

“The way Margaret did mine?” Aislinn interrupted her.

“It’s never a good thing.”

“Although it
was
in my case,” Aislinn insisted. “It did me good to know Lord Chadwick forgave me for lying about my sister. And I’m glad the truth came out about my affair with Mr. Lattimore. It could have been someone else in the household he went after next. But you were saying, my lady?”

“Th-that secrets should be kept. Unless you have permission to reveal them.”

Aislinn squinted at the window then back at Marcia. “Are you sure? Even after what I just told you?”

“Yes.” Marcia chuckled. “So don’t tempt me to ask.”

She could tell her answer frustrated Aislinn no end, but the maid contained herself and began to relate the story of Joe’s first steps.

A footman brought in the mail. Another brought the tea tray.

“Excuse me a moment,” Marcia told Aislinn after the servants had gone.

There were five letters. One from Cynthia, one from Janice, one from Mama. Then there was—oh, dear—one from Dublin. And one from—

The Duke of Beauchamp?

Marcia recognized the seal instantly. “If you don’t mind, Aislinn, I’ll read a couple of these here. Would you pour for us both?”

“Of course, my lady,” Aislinn said proudly.

“Thank you. I take one sugar and milk, please.”

“Very good, my lady.”

While Aislinn carefully poured, Marcia opened the note from Dublin. It was excellent news. One of the schools wanted her to interview for a teaching position. She was to report the next Friday at two o’clock. The headmistress wrote that she had always admired the Marchioness of Brady and was gratified that Lady Brady’s own daughter would consider a position with their school.

But of course Marcia couldn’t go.

She couldn’t.

It would be so easy simply to say yes. Forget about Duncan. Stay in Ireland and make a life for herself here. Become the old auntie who visited everyone else and their spouses and children.

It would be a peaceful, fulfilling life.

Wouldn’t it? It still might happen, but she wouldn’t allow it to if it meant she was only hiding from a chance at happiness with Duncan.

She also opened the duke’s letter with some trepidation, and when she finished, she carefully folded it with trembling fingers and laid it on the tea tray.

How could things possibly get any worse?

“Are you all right, my lady?” Aislinn held out a brimming cup of tea on its saucer to her.

Marcia took it carefully. “Yes,” she said. Then,
“No.”
She put the cup and saucer down, sloshing the hot liquid on the tea tray. “No, I’m not.”

Aislinn stopped pouring her own tea. “My lady, how can I help? Shall I fetch the smelling salts?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine.” But she was far from fine.

Aislinn sent her an encouraging smile. “Lord Chadwick cares for you, so I will do
anything
to help you, including lending an ear if you need one, my lady.”

Marcia looked at her unlikely confidante. It wouldn’t hurt to tell her. “The Duke of Beauchamp just offered me the position of headmistress at Oak Hall in Surrey. He’s bought the school from Lady Ennis and wants me back in the autumn.”

“My goodness,” said Aislinn. “That’s big news.”

“Yes, it is. It’s quite a shock.” Marcia stood and strode to the window. The lake was smooth. Peaceful. The opposite of her thoughts right now.

Aislinn came up beside her. “Is it
good
news?”

“It’s everything I thought I wanted,” Marcia said softly. “But even better. The duke will be a much kinder benefactor to the school than Lady Ennis ever was. He’s already building a small theater on the back of the grounds for elaborate stage productions. We’ve never had anything like that.” She paused. “Why does life have to be so complicated? Why do things have to change? Why can’t we have everything?
Everything?
”

“I don’t know, my lady,” Aislinn said quietly. “All I know for certain is that we do change, and all our lives we say hello and good-bye. To people. And the seasons. Our pets. And for some of us, our jobs, our living quarters, and our money. It’s never ending.”

“You’re right,” Marcia said.

They stayed at the window, and she kept her gaze on the lake. “Tell me more stories of Joe, please, to take my mind off things.”

Aislinn gave a soft laugh. “I’ll never forget how shocked we were the day Joe said his first word.
Dada
. Although Lord Chadwick wasn’t actually there to hear it. When he came home that evening, he seemed devastated to have missed out on the event. But then Joe said it again, and the earl acted as if it were Christmas Day. He brought out his finest bottle of claret, and we all shared it.” She gave a long sigh. “It’s never been easy for him. He’s always been worried.”

Marcia turned to look at her. “About what?”

“About being a good father,” Aislinn replied. “Doing all the things a father should. He didn’t want to be like his own, you see. And he didn’t want Joe to be like Mr. Lattimore—”

She stopped abruptly.

“Why would he be?” Marcia asked.

Aislinn’s face paled. “I think I need my tea. Do you, my lady?” She hastened back to the tea tray.

Marcia watched her back, hunched over the tray, her hands fumbling with nothing.

And then she looked back at the lake.

Why would Duncan worry about Joe being like Finn?

A gust of wind blew across the lake at the same moment the realization hit her. It was another shock, a shock so great she put her palm on the glass pane to steady herself, knowing full well that Alice would take her to task for leaving fingerprints on her clean window.

How had Marcia not seen it before?

Finn
was Joe’s natural father.

Not Duncan.

Chapter Thirty-six

Duncan was half drunk, but he never showed it. He’d gotten much better at it, lately, too. It was four o’clock in the afternoon, and he was in a card room at White’s, conversing intelligently with Lord Westdale to his left, Cousin Richard to his right, and a few Oxford friends in the remaining seats around the table.

“Another brandy,” he called to the waiter.

“We’re out, sir,” the waiter said rather hesitantly.

Duncan made a face and looked at Westdale. “Out?”

Westdale raised his shoulders in a shrug. “I suppose it happens.”

“The French are unreliable,” Cousin Richard opined.

“That’s impossible,” said Duncan smartly.

At least, he thought he’d spoken smartly. When he heard the words, they sounded a little pushed together, as if they were one word with some syllables missing in between.

But that could be his ears. They were stuffy lately. Probably because ever since Marcia had left, his head always ached when he woke up each morning, and his mouth was like cotton, too.

It was a lingering ague, no doubt. He simply hadn’t been able to cure it with the rum punches he had each evening.

“Has anyone heard from Lady Marcia?” he asked the room.

“Yes.” Westdale cleared his throat. “Don’t you remember she sent my mother and father a note in which she said she’d made it safely to Ballybrook? I could swear I told you. At least ten times, Chadwick. Not that I mind”—he punched his arm, hard—“repeating myself.”

“Bloody hell,” said Duncan, rubbing his arm. “I do remember that now.”

“Where’s that coffee?” asked Cousin Richard of the waiter.

“On its way, sir,” the servant replied.

“You have to give her time,” Westdale reminded Duncan.

“I’m done with time,” he said, and pushed his chair back. “I’m heading to Ireland tomorrow.”

Westdale pushed his chair back, too. “The hell you are.”

“Sod off,” Duncan told him. No one was going to stop him. So he punched Westdale in the jaw, in case he were to try.

Westdale fell back against his chair, groaning. “You idiot,” he said, feeling his jaw with his hand.

And then he stood, slowly.

All the other men backed up from the table.

Duncan got into fighting stance. “Come on, Westdale. If I have to get you out of my way the hard way, I will.”

Westdale put up his fists, too. “If I have to knock you out to keep you from going to Ireland like a lovesick puppy, I will.”

They circled each other. A cry went up in the corridor. “Fight, fight!”

Duncan got in a good upper cut to Westdale’s jaw.

Westdale spat on the floor—he still had all his teeth, Duncan was sorry to see—and then he punched Duncan in the stomach.

“You ass,” Duncan said after he got his breath back.

Strangely, his head felt clearer now. He could hear every bloody thing around him.

“Where’s Lord Chadwick?” a man was asking outside the door. “I need to find him immediately. Please get out of my way.”

“Warren?”
Duncan turned to the voice, and the last thing he remembered was the sound of his lip being split open when Westdale’s knuckles came into contact with his face.

*   *   *

“Mama?” It was late afternoon when Marcia found herself once again in the entrance hall of the family home on Grosvenor Square, a small bag in her hand. She’d brought next to nothing to Ireland, so she had very little with which to return to London.

Burbank came rushing down the long corridor. “Lady Marcia,” he said as if the house were on fire. “You’re home again.” He took her bag.

“Yes, I am, Burbank.” She smiled gratefully at him. “I’m beginning to enjoy all these reunions.”

Burbank dared not say he enjoyed them, too, but she could tell he did by the way he fussed with her cloak, removing it with extra care. “We saw Kerry in the kitchen,” he said. “Cook was so surprised, she dropped her spoon into the soup.”

“Yes,” Marcia said playfully, “Kerry wanted to surprise the staff, so she ran around the back. Where’s Mama and everyone else?”

“Lord Westdale had an appointment with friends. But everyone else went to the Duke of Beauchamp’s for lawn bowling and then an early dinner.”

“Did they?” That certainly was intriguing. “I had no idea Mama and Daddy were, well,
friends
with the duke.”

“They weren’t, my lady, until you left. That same day, the Duke of Beauchamp came to call on you to offer you his felicitations and heard that you’d”—he cleared his throat—“gone to Ireland to prepare for your nuptials.”

“Oh, yes,” she said faintly. “My nuptials.” She touched her collar. “Are they … are they still on, according to the gossip rags, Burbank?”

“Certainly, my lady,” he said in unruffled tones.

“And what of Lord Chadwick? Has he been to the house?”

“Oh, no, my lady. We’ve seen nothing of him. Your mother and father have called on him three times, but he’s never at home.” Burbanks’s tone was highly disapproving. “If it weren’t for Lord Westdale’s seeing him at White’s, we wouldn’t know if the earl were alive or dead.”

Goodness. That was the most colorful thing Burbank had ever said in her presence.

“Tea in the drawing room, my lady?”

“No, thank you,” she said. “I’ll be leaving again shortly. I’m going to freshen up in my room. Could you have it sent there?”

A knock sounded on the door before Burbank could answer her.

Marcia paused on the stairs. Perhaps she’d left something in the coach.

Or perhaps it’s Duncan.

They’d dropped Aislinn off at his house before coming home to Mama and Daddy’s.

Marcia had been bursting to stay and say hello to him and Joe, but she also believed Aislinn had a pressing need to see the earl in private. So reluctantly, she’d left the former maid there and asked her to tell Lord Chadwick that she was in Town again.

But it was Aislinn at the door, and she was shaking.

“What is it?” Marcia catapulted down the stairs to her.

Aislinn grabbed her arms for support. “J-Joe! Right after you left, Mr. Lattimore pushed his way in past Jenkins. He had two men with him with pistols, and he was carrying some papers—and he took Joe.”

“Took him?” Marcia tried to stay calm, but her voice was shaking.

Burbank signaled to a footman. “Send round for a carriage. Immediately.”

Tears poured down Aislinn’s cheeks. “He—he said he had all the papers he needed to take him away. That he was his father, dammit, and no one could stop him.”