Martha Schroeder (2 page)

“And”—the odious woman was still talking—”we insist that you spend Christmas here, with us! It is only fitting, now you no longer have the right to be here, that we make you welcome.”

Gideon clenched his hands, automatically reaching in his pocket for the small iron ball he habitually fingered in moments of high emotion. Talking as if Amelia were some penniless relation. There were no sharp instruments handy, dammit, but he could always hit her over the head with the fireplace poker. Anything to still her tongue.

“That is very kind of you, Cousin Hortense.” Amelia’s cheeks were pinker than usual, and her blue eyes held a dangerous look, if one were wise enough to recognize it.

Hortense Mannering was not. “Oh, my dear, we do not want you to feel that you have been... supplanted. You are welcome to remain here until you marry. And, indeed, perhaps afterward as well.” She cast a simpering look at Amelia. “If you take my meaning.”

Amelia ignored her. Gideon’s sharp eyes noted that her cheeks showed a deeper flush, but her tone was polite, her voice quiet. “I thank you. But, as I was about to tell you, I will be removing to my friend Jane Forrester’s home until I can arrange for my own house here in London.”

Cousin Hortense protested loudly. “But, my dear Amelia, you cannot live by yourself! A green girl like you! It is unheard of. Preposterous. People will think we did not offer you a home. You cannot. Indeed, you must not.”

For once, Gideon was inclined to agree with Mrs. Mannering. Young, unmarried ladies did not hire their own houses in town. They might, under unusual circumstances, live quietly in the country with only old family retainers as long as they did not entertain. But in London? Never. Gideon, however, knew Amelia a good deal better than Mrs. Mannering did, and held his tongue for the time being.

“I do not intend to live alone.” Amelia’s voice had frozen. Her tone brooked no further questioning of her purposes.

“Oh” was all Mrs. Mannering had to say. Something in the militant sparkle of Amelia’s eyes must have communicated its message to the new duke’s mother. After a few more random comments on the joys of spending Christmas with one’s family, she took her leave.

Gideon drew a deep breath. It might not be any of Hortense Mannering’s business where Amelia was going to live, but as her oldest friend he thought it damn well was his. He looked at his hostess. She had sunk into a chair and was contemplating her untested cup of tea with an absent look in her eye.

“Amy,” he began.

“Do not start a lecture on the strict chaperonage required by my unmarried state, Gideon, unless you want to witness the tantrum I spared Cousin Hortense.” A half smile touched her lips, but he knew she was serious.

“Very well, Amy. I know you have been sorely tried this afternoon, and I will keep my tongue between my teeth.” He bent down and brushed a kiss against the bright softness of her hair. “But be warned! As the next thing you have to a brother, I am not going to keep silent forever.”

“No, I never supposed you would, my friend.” Amelia sighed. “But I shall treasure my peace for as long as you do.”

“Poor Amy. I shall leave you alone to bask in it, then. Remember, my dear, you have only to send word and I can be here at any time. For any reason. If I do not hear from you, I shall call again tomorrow.”

Chapter Two

Eustace Mannering, the Duke of Doncaster, lounged in a sagging wing chair and looked around the shabby, furnished house with profound dislike. His full lips pouted, and he reached for another bonbon.

“Really, Mama,” he said, his high, tenor voice more querulous than usual, “I do not see why you could not bring our dear cousin to accept your most flattering invitation.”

“In the ordinary way of things I am sure she would have accepted, my dear. After all, where else can she go? But that odious Captain Falconer was there, sneering and glowering and generally making himself most disagreeable.”

“Confound the man, Mama! I am sure I could cut him out with her if only I had the chance!” Eustace clenched his hands and stared into the meager fire. Succeeding to the title should have made all his dreams come true. He had looked forward to nothing else his entire life. The duke had limited his contact with his heir to a dinner once or twice a year in London, after that unfortunate affair with the housemaid at the Abbey.

Eustace grimaced. Tiresome old bore. Even in death the duke had managed to cheat him! All the money—and there was so much money—to go to that tiresome little chit. She was as mealy-mouthed and Methodist as her father. Pretty little morsel, but so good and pure it made one positively queasy! Nevertheless, there was nothing for it but to swallow his distaste and marry her. The Mannerings’ need for money was acute, and only an advantageous marriage would save them once his creditors discovered that the title, a town house, and some moldering old pile in Devon were all the inheritance Eustace had received.

Damn the old skinflint! Eustace couldn’t bear any more fruitless reflection. “I think I’ll just toddle along to the club, Mama,” he said, rising from his chair and smoothing the ruffles on his shirtfront.

Hortense frowned. “Don’t go losing any more money, lovey. We’ll be all right once we remove to Doncaster House. There must be all sorts of little things lying about that we can sell to tide us over. But until then you’d best keep up the idea of coming into money.”

“Did you tell Cousin Amelia that we’d be moving in soon?”

“Oh, my, yes. And asked her to stay for Christmas. Offered a home with us, just as we decided, dear.”

“All right, all right. I know.” Eustace slid into his overcoat and waved good night to his mother. “I must marry the girl, but there is no need to talk about it tonight.”

* * * *

At the same time, in Colonel Sir Richard Sinclair’s snug bachelor rooms, that gentleman sat in a leather armchair in front of a cheerful blaze and stretched his long legs out with a sigh of exquisite comfort. His cravat was loosened and his straight dark blond hair was disheveled. It had been a long day, and Sir Richard was looking forward to a brandy and a complete absence of thought.

There was a sound that might have been a knock, which Sir Richard ignored until his man, Hoskins, entered and quietly announced, “Captain Falconer requests a word with you, sir.”

With a sigh the colonel rose and turned to greet his young friend and protégé. “Gideon,” he said with a smile that was only slightly forced.

“I am sorry to disturb you so late, sir,” Gideon said, his face grave. “If you would prefer, I can wait until tomorrow. It is only a trifling personal matter, nothing that you should be bothered with. I am sorry I even thought of coming.”

Sir Richard gave a short bark of laughter. “Oh, come, Gideon, cut line. Humility doesn’t become you. You are here, and you will sit down and take a brandy with me.”

“Thank you, sir. It is good of you to admit me at this hour.” He stood for a moment and looked around the cozy apartment. It was filled with books, pipes, and newspapers. Gideon had never before called upon the colonel and was somewhat apprehensive.

His life in the army had been essentially very simple and very solitary. He had lived for his work, determined to make the duke proud of him. The fact that a commission had been purchased for him, not in a line regiment but in the cavalry, the elite of army services, had inspired Gideon with a determination to excel.

Gideon not only did not participate in the social life, which was the reason most in his regiment had chosen the cavalry, he ignored it totally. He was concerned only with horses and tactics. He made no friends—though he made no enemies, either. There was something in his single-mindedness that kept envy as well as friendship at bay. The other junior officers regarded him as an eccentric, but a harmless one. They rather liked the quiet, self-contained young man with the mysterious past, particularly since he turned into a hell-for-leather dervish once the fighting started.

Sir Richard was a ranking officer whose knowledge of the history of cavalry was formidable. Gideon had first come to his attention when he had asked several penetrating questions regarding Cromwell’s innovative use of cavalry in the Civil War. Sir Richard had noted with some amusement that the other young officers, all sprigs of the nobility, had not taken kindly to a respectful discussion of the Great Regicide’s military genius. Later Gideon had told him what had sparked his interest.

“He had no formal training. It was all intelligence and necessity that guided him. He was a nobody.” Gideon had not added
like me,
but Sir Richard knew a little of his history and he guessed the kinship Gideon felt.

For some reason, the dark-haired young officer had sparked an interest in Sir Richard and he had taken Gideon under his wing. When, on the Peninsula, Gideon had taken a saber cut intended for the colonel, a friendship had grown and flourished.

“Sit down and drink the brandy Hoskins has supplied you with, and tell me what is on your mind this evening.”

Gideon remained standing in front of the fireplace. “Sir, I hardly know why I have come. I need advice but I’m not sure if you can help.” He ran a hand distractedly through his hair.

Sir Richard raised his sandy brows in a silent question.

“Yes, I know I am not being very clear. But I am not precisely sure why I am worried.”

Again, Sir Richard said nothing, gesturing him to continue. Gideon took a large sip of brandy and said, “It concerns the late Duke of Doncaster’s daughter. Lady Amelia.”

“Ah.” Sir Richard nodded, as if Gideon had said something very significant. “The duke was your sponsor, was he not, and the lady is an orphan now, if I am not mistaken.”

“Yes, and she has no relatives except the new duke and his mother, and I do not trust them.” Gideon kicked the log, sending up a shower of sparks. “I fear what they may do.”

“Why? Why should they do anything?”

“Money. The duke left all his money to Amy—Lady Amelia. And from what I have managed to learn, Eustace and his mother are very hard up.”

“You, listening to gossip? I am amazed, Falconer.”

“Yes, sir, so am I.” Gideon smiled a little sheepishly. “But I would do anything to protect Lady Amelia.” The smile faded, and a grim look replaced it. “Anything.”

Sir Richard motioned Gideon to sit down. “The duke arranged for your commission, did he not?”

Gideon sat down in the other chair that flanked the fireplace. “He did more than that. He bought it for me.” He looked at Sir Richard but said nothing for a long moment. “Everyone knows I was a foundling. I have never made a secret of it. I have no idea who or what my parents were. I ran away from the man who owned—whom I worked for.”

Gideon got up and went to stand, looking out the window at the rain coming down in the darkness outside. “It was winter, and I had been on the streets for a few weeks, I think. Anyway, to make a short tale of it, Amelia and the duke found me, and she convinced her father to let me stay and to send me to school.

“She saw something in me, something worth saving. I owe her my life.”

There was silence for a moment while Gideon drank the last of his brandy. He had never told anyone this much before, but his concern for Amelia compelled him to reveal his shameful past. Sir Richard had to understand why he cared for her—and that she had no one else to turn to.

“I can see why you feel that you must do everything you can to protect the lady. It is what any foster brother would feel.”

“I am not her brother. The duke never adopted me. I was only one of the many boys he helped.”

“The solution seems obvious. Once the lady has married, she will have a protector and your sense of responsibility will subside.”

“Amelia says she has no interest in marriage.”

“Absurd. Every woman is interested in marriage, even those who profess the contrary.” Sir Richard reached for the pipe conveniently placed amid the clutter on the table at his elbow. “A clutch of them have tried to marry me over the years. As I recall, Lady Amelia is a taking little thing. She should have no trouble bringing any number of eligible males up to scratch.”

It was well-known that Sir Richard took a dim view of the fair sex. Succeeding unexpectedly to his brother’s title and expectations, he had gone overnight from being just another younger son in the military to a very eligible
parti.
Gideon wondered why he had come. He’d wanted to talk to someone, share his worries, get advice from an older and wiser head. He should have remembered Sir Richard’s reputation. No one as cynical as the colonel could be expected to understand Amy.

“She is not like other women.”

“Of course, you would think so.” Sir Richard rose and joined Gideon in front of the fireplace. He reached in with a long taper and carefully lit his pipe. “But where the important things of life are concerned—husbands and babies and re-covering the chairs in a man’s library—believe me, Captain, they are all alike. You will see.”

“Not Amy.” Realizing he’d spoken too quickly to be polite, Gideon added, “Although I do not know her attitude toward chairs.”

Sir Richard smiled, his hazel eyes disbelieving. “Well, my friend, short of marrying her yourself, I do not see that there is much you can do. You are not the young lady’s guardian, are you?”

“Amelia is twenty-four, sir.”

“Good heavens. If I remember her correctly, she looks much younger. She is the small blonde with the big blue eyes? I am sure I have seen her occasionally at a musicale or the theater.”

“Yes, that describes Amelia. Lady Amelia,” Gideon amended, remembering too late that he had referred to her without her title several times.

“A taking little thing. And a considerable heiress? Hmm.” Sir Richard rapped his pipe smartly on the marble mantel. Ashes fell on a hearth already thickly scattered with them.

Gideon felt he had to explain just why Amy was so different from other women. “Lady Amelia is following in her father’s footsteps. She is continuing his work with children and has decided to found a school for orphan girls. She is devoting her life to charity.”