Realm 06 - A Touch of Love (8 page)

She sidestepped a fresh pile of horse dung while dodging a young gentleman’s poorly driven curricle to step upon the curb before Briar House. It was a magnificent house: plenty of windows to permit the light and warmth of even a weak sun, as well as beautiful columns giving the exterior the look of a Roman theatre. Briar House spoke to the Fowlers’ place in Society. Her breath hitched, and Lucinda chastised herself for the very feminine desire to break into tears again. Her eyes swept the townhouse’s façade. Splendor she would never know.

With a deep steadying breath, she entered the gate and ascended the few steps to release the knocker. In less than a minute, the door swung wide to reveal the duke’s very proper butler. “Yes, Miss?”

Lucinda swallowed hard to clear his throat. “I am Mrs. Warren. His Grace is expecting me.”

The butler’s eyebrow rose as he peered behind her to search for her maid, but it had been more than a year since Lucinda could afford help of any kind. She supposed she could have borrowed Nancy’s services from Mrs. Peterman, but Lucinda did not want her gossipy landlady to know of her destination. Despite feeling very self-conscience, she pretended not to notice the servant’s disapproval. “This way, Mrs. Warren,” the butler said diplomatically.

Lucinda politely followed the man up the stairs and along an elaborately decorated passage. She had attended the Come Out ball for Thornhill’s sister, Lady Eleanor Fowler, and his cousin, Miss Velvet Aldridge, in this house. Now, Miss Aldridge was Brantley Fowler’s duchess, and by all accounts the man’s one true love. Yet, on that one evening, Lucinda had received the duke’s attentions, and although she had been a bit uncomfortable with Thornhill’s sudden adoration, the evening remained one of Lucinda’s favorite memories. A man of worth had revered her intelligence and her good sense. A well-placed gentleman had found her attractive, something Mr. Warren had never done.

The butler tapped on an already open door. “Your Grace. Mrs. Warren to speak to you.” The man stepped aside, and Lucinda entered a very masculine study. Dark wood panels spoke of a strong mind and an unqualified determination, both of which could easily describe the Duke of Thornhill.

The duke rose to greet her. His light brown hair was peppered with strands of gold. It was unstylishly long and tied back with a leather strap. Eyes of darkest chocolate glittered with genuine welcome, and Lucinda breathed a bit easier. “Thank you, Mr. Horace. If you will ask Cook to send in tea.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Brantley Fowler caught Lucinda’s hand and brought it to his lips. “I was pleased to hear from you,” he said easily, “but I admit you have piqued my interest.” Lucinda had always liked Brantley Fowler. The future duke had spent but two months in the same company as had Lucinda’s late husband; and during the brief interval, Fowler and Mr. Warren had renewed their university acquaintance. She was proud to say the young lord had always treated her with respect. She was the daughter of the younger son of an earl, and the future duke accepted her as his equal socially. In fact, once when Captain Warren had found fault with the meal she had managed on the few supplies available, it had been Brantley Fowler who had taken up her defense.

“I appreciate your greeting me on such short notice, Your Grace.” The duke led her to a nearby settee before assuming the seat across from where Lucinda sat. “I beg your forgiveness for my bold gesture.”

The duke frowned. “I would hope you would view me as an ally, Lucinda.” His ready familiarity eased her tension.

The butler returned with the tray. “Mrs. Warren will serve, Horace.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.” The butler closed the door upon his exit.

Lucinda dutifully took up the service. This cup would be a treat for her. Her meager funds did not stretch to expensive tea and what Mrs. Peterman served was less than desirable. The duke must have read her mind for he said, “My sister Eleanor’s husband, Lord Worthing, declares he spent seven years of service to his country without a decent cup of tea.”

Lucinda nodded her understanding. “Even on English soil,” she said as a means to define her purpose in coming to Briar House, “many cannot afford the weak mix with which we suffered on the Continent. The military’s idea of tea is less than inspiring, but it would be welcome in many English households.”

A long pause kept Thornhill silent. The air was thick with nerves and unspoken truths. Finally, the duke asked, “Are you among those who cannot afford such luxuries?”

Lucinda had always prided herself on her frankness. She had come to beg Thornhill for his support, and the duke deserved the truth, as she knew it. “I am, Your Grace,” she said more calmly than she felt.

Setting his cup aside, the duke sat forward bracing his arms along his thighs. He cocked his head as if seeing her for the first time, and Lucinda fought the urge to squirm under the man’s close scrutiny. He said with concern, “When last we met, you spoke of a small settlement from your mother and, of course, your widow’s pension. Had I known…”

Lucinda cut off the duke’s offer. “I am not your responsibility, Your Grace, and a pity call was not my purpose this day.”

He jammed his knuckles into the side of his leg. Thornhill held a reputation for rescuing “damsels in distress.” It was one of the reasons Lucinda had sought his assistance. “But what of your parents? Or of the Warrens?”

She cleared her throat and hoped her voice did not betray the chaos rushing through her veins. “My mother passed some five months after my marriage to Mr. Warren. The colonel lost his life in Belgium.” She could not hide the grief, which tugged heavily at her heart. Losing her father had come close to sending her over the edge, both figuratively and literally. She still blamed herself for not protecting him. “I would prefer not to seek the assistance of the Earl of Charleton. The colonel and Uncle Gerhard were often at odds. I would not wish to claim the role of poor dependent.” Lucinda did not think her father’s oldest brother would take kindly to the situation in which she now found herself.

“And the Warrens?” the duke prompted. His words caused her heart to stutter. Every time she thought of Matthew Warren’s betrayal she wished to curse the heavens.

Lucinda schooled her expression. Her husband’s parents had turned from her after their son’s death. At the time, she had not understood the reasons the Warrens had placed distance between them. Captain Warren’s parents had pledged their only child to Lucinda when they were but babes, and the Rightnours had gloried in the connection. She felt the shame for her parents’ hopes. Although she could not say she had loved Matthew Warren, she had
always held her husband in great affection; they had been friends for as long as she could recall. “Father Warren has indicated I am no longer welcome at Coltman Hall.”

The duke’s mouth formed a thin line of disapproval. “I had once thought Warren’s parents perfect in every way,” he confessed.

Lucinda thought,
Perfect in their outward displays, but greatly lacking in essentials.
“If you hold no objections, Your Grace, I would care to speak to the reasons for my calling upon you.”

“By all means.” The duke leaned back into the chair’s cushions. “I am your servant.”

The nerves she had earlier tamped down had roared to life again. A thousand frightening scenarios flitted through her brain. Purposefully, Lucinda took another sip of the tea. It really was quite lovely to taste the bitter leaves. Setting the cup on the tray, she caught Fowler’s gaze and held it. “Some five months past, I was presented a most difficult situation. I opened the door to my let rooms to discover a small boy of some five years of age sitting upon the threshold. There were no adults about and upon investigation, no one knew of how the child came to wait outside my quarters.”

“Was there no identification?” Thornhill inquired earnestly.

Lucinda set her shoulders in a stiff slant. She dreaded what was to come, but the duke would accept nothing less than the absolute facts. “Only a note pinned to the child’s jacket.” When the duke did not respond, she continued. “The note announced the child to be Captain Warren’s. By his wife, a woman he had married in ’09, some two years before he returned to Devon for the pronouncing of our vows.” Lucinda kept part of the truth as her own special torment. She did not tell him the complete facts of the child’s mother.

“With whom has the child resided over the past five years?” Fresh despair filled Lucinda’s heart. It was natural for people to assume Simon’s mother had passed before Mr. Warren had taken Lucinda as his wife.

“Simon’s mother held the boy’s responsibility. The first Mrs. Warren met her end shortly before the child appeared upon my doorstep,” she explained with an acerbic smile.

The duke appeared perplexed. “How may that be so? You are telling me, Matthew Warren took another without his parents’ knowledge?”

Lucinda had asked herself that very question repeatedly. “I would hope the Warrens did not knowingly foist a sham of a marriage upon me.” She forced the tremble from her words.

The duke was up and pacing. “I have heard of such deceit, but I would never place Matthew Warren among those who would practice duplicity. He was my guest several times at Thorn Hall when we were at university. The extent of this falsehood is of the gravest debasement.”

Lucinda said softly, “The boy was conceived after our joining.” She would not permit the duke to observe how the thought of her husband with another woman had ripped her heart from her chest; yet, she had cried her last tear for the soul of a dishonest man.

Thornhill dejectedly returned to his seat. “This is all too much.” With a heavy sigh, he asked, “Where is the child now?”

Lucinda glanced to the sun streaming through one of the windows. There was only one window in her rooms, and she sorely missed fresh air upon her countenance.
Too many years of following the drum
, she thought. “Today, young Simon is with my landlady. The child resides with me.” Again, she withheld an important fact from Thornhill, one that would color everything with a black stroke.

The duke set forward again. “You have taken it upon yourself to care for the offspring of your husband’s betrayal?” he asked incredulously. “You must realize, Mrs. Warren, your raising this child within your home will bring you ostracism. You are opening yourself to public humiliation when this situation becomes common knowledge.”

Lucinda fought back the tears stinging her lashes. “The child has the right to know a touch of love. I could not turn the boy out on the streets nor could I place him in a foundling home; yet, it is Simon’s presence, which has brought me to your door. The child has complicated my life in ways I could not anticipate. If Mr. Warren married another before speaking his vows to me, I am not his widow, and my only source of income for the boy and me has vanished into a foggy London sky. I require someone to discover the truth of the note’s claim. I can easily voice a myriad of questions, but I possess no resources to discover the answers.”

Thornhill caught Carter’s arm. “I need to speak to you.” Their group had returned to Linton Park for yet another wedding: This time it was for Henry ‘Lucifer’ Hill, the unofficial eighth man of their group. In the three months since they had last converged upon Worthing’s threshold, much had happened. Lexford had known success with Miss Nelson, and the two had not lost the glow of marital bliss. On the evening of Pennington’s engagement ball, the marquis’s wife had returned to thwart an attack against her husband. Last week, Lady Godown had given birth to the marquis’s heir, and all was well in Gabriel Crowden’s life. Thornhill awaited the birth of his first child with the former Velvet Aldridge. And Carter? He had continued on as Pennington’s assistant and had deftly sidestepped three more attempts on his life.

Once a month
, he had noted of late. A pattern had developed before disappearing. The first attack had come on 1 January. The second on 2 February, and so forth. That was until this month. Although he had anticipated another encounter with his own mortality, no attempt had come on 6 June. He still could not understand why the attacks had stopped, and that particular fact frustrated Carter to no end.

“Privately,” the duke insisted.

Carter nodded reluctantly and followed Thornhill to Worthing’s study. When they were settled, his friend began, “I have a favor to ask.” The duke stroked the chair’s arm with his fingertip, a nervous habit of which Thornhill had spent many years correcting. In the field, such an insignificant gesture could relay a man’s uneasiness or his duplicity. Carter thought of his own bad habits and wondered if he had ever conquered them. He waited in silence for the duke to continue. “Do you recall the lady I invited to Eleanor’s and Velvet’s Come Out ball?”

Of course, Carter remembered her. He had sat on Mrs. Warren’s left during the supper hour, and he was amazed with the lady’s ability to make each man at the table easy in his regard for her. Carter had enjoyed the way she met his eyes when she spoke to him of her time following the drum. “Mrs. Warren? I believe you once held a friendly acquaintance with the lady’s late husband.”