The Emerald Duchess (18 page)

Suddenly he stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, greatly upsetting an elderly gentleman who stumbled into him before he could stop himself. By the time apologies had been tendered and bows exchanged, the duke was impatient to be off. Perhaps Emily had returned to the same hotel? Perhaps they would know where she had gone?

His spirits rose and he flagged down a hackney cab, all impatience now, for the length of the short journey. So many dead ends, so much wasted time—pray God he would be successful this time!

And successful he was, for the first person he spoke to at Bradley’s was the porter, who opened the door of his cab for him and who not only remembered the handsome brunette who was posing as Mrs. Wiggins, but also recalled the vital information that she had gone off to Brighton on the stage only a few weeks ago. The duke clapped him on the shoulder, called him an excellent fellow, and rewarded him with such openhanded largesse that the porter could contemplate treating his particular friends to many a round in their favorite pub for weeks and weeks to come.

If the duke arrived back in Park Lane not exactly walking on air, at the least he wore a brighter expression than had been seen on his face for some time. He discovered a letter awaiting him from his aunt, Lady Staunton, and not even her cold formal words requesting him to call as soon as he could possibly contrive it had the power to dampen his spirits. His butler was astounded to hear him humming as he took the stairs two at a time to change for dinner, and when he informed Greene that he intended to toddle around to Brooks and look up some of his cronies later, and that he rather thought he might take a look-in at Brighton for a few days, Mr. Greene was encouraged to hope that his infatuation with Miss Nelson was at an end and life could return to normal at last.

The following morning, the duke was prompt to present himself in his aunt’s drawing room and found his uncle also in attendance. This gentleman looked a little worried, for although the duke was as impeccable as always, he was dressed for riding, a fact he knew would offend his wife. Lady Staunton was a great stickler for the proprieties and would not think it a compliment to be visited by even so exalted a gentleman as the duke unless he wore the proper morning attire. To his surprise, she allowed the duke to
k
iss her hand and motioned him to a seat without even mentioning the unsatisfactory nature of his dress.

Lady Staunton had no intention of upsetting her nephew this morning. As her butler poured them all a glass of sherry and the duke chatted with her husband, she observed him carefully. She had always considered Charles a handsome man, but this morning there was an air about him of some hidden excitement that caused his black eyes to sparkle, and the look of boredom that was his habitual expression was very much in abeyance. Her heart sank. I suppose he has set up a new mistress, she thought dourly, and just when I have arranged to entertain Lady Beardsley and her daughter. How tiresome men were! She would be hard put to gain his consent to attend her in the country now that he had a new
amour
to intrigue him.

“I suppose you have found yet another suitable, well-bred damsel for my inspection, ma’am? Who is it this time?” the duke began as soon as the butler shut the drawing-room door behind him. His determination to be on his way made him curt, but he did not hear her gasp at his temerity as he added, “This sherry is very tolerable; my compliments, Uncle.”

He bowed slightly to the gentleman, who had choked a little at his first remark, and then turned back to his aunt. “Perhaps I should have called on you as soon as I returned from Brussels, for then I could have spared you the exertion.” He smiled easily at the lady, who sat rigid on the very edge of a gray satin sofa, her slightly protuberant eyes bulging with shock.

“I am sure, Charles, that you will be good enough to explain yourself,” she replied in her stiff, colorless voice. “You know I do not care for careless joking and ill-bred humor, although I am sure I have always borne my part in lighthearted conversation.”

“I cannot call to mind any occasion that you did so, Aunt, but no doubt that is a result of my lamentable memory. Come now, shall we begin again? You asked me to call; behold me, obedient to your wishes.”

His aunt watched him finish his sherry, and as he crossed his well-polished boots and began to swing one gently, she knew he was impatient to be off, and she hurried into speech.

“I meant to ask you to come down to Neerings for some weeks’ stay. I am sure you would enjoy it, for your uncle and
I
are having a few compatible people to visit. London grows so tiresome with this heat.”

The duke nodded, but said, “Unfortunately I am desolated to have to refuse the treat, Aunt. I am off to Brighton in an hour.”

Lady Staunton moved forward another half-inch on her sofa. “Brighton? I do not think we know anyone staying at Brighton, do we, Jerome?”

In her voice was the suggestion that if none of her acquaintance were there, there
was
no one in Brighton worth knowing. Her lord shook his head, but he was not required to answer, for the duke interrupted to say, “Possibly you do not, but I think I do.”

The engaging smile that accompanied this statement did not endear him to his aunt, who thought that dear Charles was certainly in an unusual mood this morning. If she had been anyone else, she would have even called it playful. “Indeed?” she murmured.

“Indeed. In fact, I am sure that I will find her there.”

“Aha! I might have known it was a woman.” Lady Staunton’s voice was so full of cold loathing that the duke remonstrated with her.

“Come, come, Aunt! Such aversion, and to your own sex, too. But you are mistaken. It is not just
any
woman; it is the future Duchess of Wrotherham.”

“Now I know that you are being frivolous, Charles. I have not heard you were at last contemplating the holy state of matrimony, and I am sure I must have done so if it were true, for the sounds of all England rejoicing that you were about to do your duty at last could hardly have failed to come to my attention.”

The duke noticed his uncle scurrying to pour himself another glass of sherry as he replied, “Very well-put indeed, ma’am. That takes the trick and puts me in my place, does it not? But knowing your interest in the matter, I am sure you will be glad to wish me happy. I can assure you, you are the first of the family to know.”

“Who is she?” Lady Staunton asked baldly, cutting through his rhetoric to the heart of the matter.

“She is a Wyndham of Berks, the niece of Lord Gregory Wyndham, the daughter of Captain Thomas Wyndham, late of the Royal Navy.”

“Wyndham
...
Wyndham,” his aunt mused.

“It will not be a brilliant match, even though her birth is more than acceptable. However, that is of small concern to me, for I love her and I intend to marry her.”

“Congratulations, my boy, what glorious news,” his uncle said, coming up to pat him on the shoulder and darting only an occasional glance at his wife, whose one aim in life for the past ten years had been to find the future duchess for her nephew, thereby ensuring his undying gratitude, and more important, that a worthy-enough young woman should fill such a high and exalted post.

“Wyndham
...
Thomas Wyndham ... the navy
...
” Lady Staunton murmured again.

“I will spare you any more of these tiring cogitations, ma’am,” the duke said. “The young lady’s mother was Althea Wyndham. Perhaps you knew the lady?”

“
Althea Wyndham
?”
Lady Staunton asked in a voice of doom just before she fainted and fell right off her sofa.

By the time she had been restored to consciousness, the duke was wishing he had gone off to Brighton at dawn, but having opened this Pandora’s box, he could hardly go away and leave his uncle to deal with it.

“No, no, say it is not true, Charles,” his aunt moaned
when she was able to speak again, pushing her husband, who was patting her shoulder, away from her. “Not Althea Wyndham’s daughter! You poor, poor deluded boy. Perhaps you were not aware ... I mean, you cannot have heard that the girl’s mother was a ... In fact, at one time your very own father ... but maybe you have not offered for her as yet? I beg you to consider the family, your duty to your name. If you marry Althea Wyndham’s daughter, I shall have to kill myself, for there will be no other course open to me.”

“Uncle, perhaps another glass of sherry for my aunt? Come, ma’am, let us be sensible. It is not Althea Wyndham who is to be my bride; it is her daughter, Emily Margaret. She is nothing at all like her mother, and in this case, the sins of the fathers fall on my head, not hers. Since the unfortunate lady who was her mother is deceased, perhaps we should let her rest in peace? I do not regard her; neither should you.”

Lady Staunton moaned. “The scandal ... the gossip. Charles, tell me you are just funning and you do not mean a word of it and I will promise never to bring another young lady to your attention ever again. Oh, better that you should never marry and the direct line die out than the ignominy of an alliance with the Wyndhams.”

The duke stiffened and rose with alacrity.

“Do me the kindness to spare me any more of your lecturing and prosy, puffed-up conceit for the House of Wrotherham, and if you must, ma’am, take comfort in the fact that you are a Staunton and not directly related to the Saint Allyns. Besides, I am almost thirty. What I do is of concern only to me. I can assure you that Emily is much too fine and good for me; I only hope she can be brought to accept my suit. Up to this time, she has been most unwilling to align herself with our family.”

He stared at his aunt with considerable hauteur. His mother had died when he was only seven, and her sister, Lady Staunton, had never shown him even an ounce of affection. He could not recall her ever kissing or hugging him; her whole attention was for the title, not the little boy who so desperately needed her love. Remembering this made him add as he strolled to the door, “Oh, by the way, Aunt, Miss Wyndham has been in service as a lady’s maid this past year. It is not generally known, and perhaps you would prefer to keep that information to yourself. I
quite
understand, and now I bid you good day.”

There was complete silence in the drawing room as the door closed behind him and the Stauntons heard his booted feet going down the stairs to the front door. Only when they heard it slam behind him did the frozen tableau dissolve and Lady Staunton toss off her entire glass of sherry in one gulp.

“Althea Wyndham ... a lady’s maid
...
unwilling to marry him! I feel much better, Jerome, for it is obvious that Charles, if he is not gone completely mad, which I cannot believe to be the case, is indulging in some childish prank at our expense. I shall not regard it.”

1
0

Life at Rutherford Hall continued on its former placid way now that Emily had been let in on the secret of Miss Horatia’s great distaste for the opposite sex, and she was careful to remove all references to
them
from her conversation. Her normal good health returned quickly, and even the dizzy spells and occasional headaches disappeared, although she came no closer to discovering her real identity. Sometimes, she thought she saw a glimmer of light, and found herself saying, “No, that’s not the way I do it”; or she would have a brief vision of a smiling face framed with a cloud of golden hair, or see a pair of dark eyes, intent with passion, but when she tried to force her mind to remember their owners, the hazy curtain would come down again and everything that had ever happened to her before she came to Rutherford Hall would disappear.

She discovered she could play the piano but couldn’t cook; that her needlework was exquisite and that she spoke French, but that she could not ride a horse or drive a team, and was worse than useless in the garden. She remembered dates in history
and long-ago wars, could recite poetry and discuss philosophy, but she had no knowledge of Napoleon or indeed of any event that had occurred since the turn of the century.

She tried not to brood about it, but even as her strength returned, she began to suffer terrible nightmares. She would sit up suddenly in the dark to find her pillow wet with her tears, but now that she was awake, the dreams that made her so sad eluded her. Why do I cry and sob in my sleep? she wondered. What is there in my past that has caused me such sorrow that it still distresses me now? She began to dread the
nighttimes when she had to take her candle from the table in the hall and follow the Misses Rutherford to bed. Miss Horatia, who had the room next to her, had heard her sobbing and had even gone in to her one night to find her fast asleep even as she tossed and moaned in her distress. She watched Emily carefully after that, noting her preoccupation and the frown on her face when she did not think she was being observed. Much concerned, she bade Hortense inquire of the doctor for the cause of this new malady, but that good man could only theorize that the young lady’s memory might be coming back at last, and that perhaps there was some painful past event she was trying to avoid remembering.

One night, long after everyone was in bed and asleep, Miss Horatia was roused once again by the girl’s pitiful sobs and cries, and she pulled on her dressing gown to investigate.

As she opened the door, she heard her call out, “Charles, I need you. Charles, where are you?” and, steeling her heart, she went up to the bed to take her in her arms. “There, my dear, there,” she said in her gruff voice.

Emily woke up startled before she lay her head on Miss Horatia’s bosom.

“I am so sorry, Miss Rutherford,” she whispered. “Did I wake you again?”

“That is no matter, child. But come, you were calling for someone in your sleep, someone named Charles. Do you know who he might be?”

Emily was astounded to hear a masculine name escape Miss Horatia’s thin lips. “I ... I have no idea. I know no one by that name,” she said.

Miss Horatia patted her briskly on the shoulder and rose. “Go back to sleep, then. No doubt it is someone from your past, but you must not let it trouble you.”

But the very next morning there was something else to concern the older lady that drove the girl’s nightmares right from her mind. Agnes, who had taken their guest to her heart and insisted on serving as her maid, came to Miss Horatia and reported her suspicions. The girl had been with them for over a month now, and none of the cloths that Agnes had provided for her period had been used. Of course, she told her mistress, it might be due to the shock of the accident, but somehow she did not believe it. There was a glow to the girl, a new softness, and although she was sorry to have to mention it to Miss Rutherford, she herself had had four children and could read the signs as well as anyone. Miss Horatia bid her keep her suspicions to herself for the time being and went to seek the counsel of her younger sister, her eyes sharp with her anger and distress.

“I knew all her troubles were directly related to one of
them,
Hortense,” she said after she disclosed her fears that the young lady was pregnant. “Hmmph!
They
amuse themselves, but the woman always pays.”

“Oh, dearie me,” Miss Hortense said, looking nervously at her sister. How would dear Horatia react to their young friend now that there was proof of such a direct relationship with the enemy? Might her dislike extend to her as well?

“So, she is Mrs. Wiggins, after all, how sad,” she managed to say at last. “But, Sister, we must find her hus—the baby’s, er, I mean
...”

“
I
know exactly what you mean,” Miss Horatia snapped. “There is no need to pussyfoot about, Hortense. In this instance I shall relax my standards. I am well aware that the young lady did not arrive in her present predicament all by herself. Oh, no, it was all one of
their
doing! I hope she may be Mrs. Wiggins indeed, but I do not count on it. She has probably been abandoned by
him,
unmarried and bereft, and is all alone in the world. That is probably the reason she cries in her sleep.”

“Oh, Sister,” Miss Hortense exclaimed, clapping her hands in glee, “she is not alone; she has us. How lovely to have a baby in the hall. Do say that we may offer her a home with us, and the child as well.”

“That depends, Sister, and we shall have to wait and see,” Miss Horatia was quick to remind her. “But that is in the future, and we have more immediate concerns. Since she still cannot remember her real name, this forces us to make inquiries, for even though I do not think it at all probable, knowing what
they
are like, there
may
be a Mr. Wiggins in her past.”

“How do we do that, Sister?” Miss Hortense asked, putting aside her dreams of cradles, booties, and little bonnets.

“We shall advertise, of course, in the papers. Then, too, perhaps we should concentrate our efforts in Brighton, since that is where we found her. I shall write up the notices at once, and one of the maids can post them for us this afternoon.
You go and find the girl and tell her what we propose to do. I shall leave it up to you whether or not you tell her that we know of her condition. I am almost positive that she is unaware of it herself as yet.”

Miss Hortense bustled away and found Emily sitting under the giant elm, a pile of mending at her feet.

“Dearie, Horatia has just told me,” she said as she took a seat and beamed at the girl. “And soon you will have many more interesting things to sew besides my old petticoats. My, yes, and they will be so much tinier too.”

She giggled and blushed, and Emily put down her sewing in confusion. “Whatever can you mean, ma’am?” she asked.

Miss Rutherford not only hemmed and hawed, she started a sentence only to abandon it and bury her face in her handkerchief, peeping around it to wink at Emily before she disappeared behind it once more, and so it was several minutes before Emily learned what the suspicions of the elderly ladies were. At once she felt a great rush of joy, although she did not know why. It seemed strange to be so happy about a child who had no name, whose father was unknown and might not even be her husband, but none of that mattered as she sat clutching Miss Hortense’s second-best petticoat to her breast while she smiled a little, her eyes dreamy and far away.

She was recalled to the present when Miss Hortense came and put her arms around her to give her a kiss. “And you are happy, are you not, my dearie? Yes, yes, I can see that you are. Now listen to me carefully, for what I am about to say is very important. Very important indeed.”

She knelt down in the grass next to Emily’s chair and took both her hands in hers. “We must always, from this moment on, my dearie,
think pink!
Do you understand? The baby
must
be a girl, it must, for I am not entirely sure that Horatia’s aversion to men might not even extend to even the newest, wee boy. Now, what do you think of Rachel Rose for a name? Rachel Rose Rutherford—such a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

Emily had to laugh at her eagerness, but even as Miss Hortense had been speaking, the little voice in her head was saying, “Oh, no, it must be a boy, for his sake!” For a moment, the dark eyes gleamed in her mind’s eye before they faded away. “Charles,” she murmured.

“You mean you prefer
Charlotte
, dearie? Well, that is a pleasant name, too,” Miss Hortense said firmly, and Emily shook herself out of her revery as she began to tell her that Horatia was even now writing up some notices that were to be posted around Brighton and preparing a written account for the newspapers.

“But you are not to worry if Mr. Wiggins does not come forward. We are only too happy to have you stay with us, and the baby girl, too,” Miss Hortense assured her. “In fact, I shall be very sad if the gentleman does come to claim you, for you have brought such life and spirit to us all.”

She got up to shake out her crushed skirts and say as she took her leave, “Remember, dearie,
pink,
only pink, and dear little Rachel Rose.”

While Emily dreamed away the rest of the morning under the elm tree, the Duke of Wrotherham was making the acquaintance of Mrs. Huddlewick of Brighton’s finest employment agency, who remembered Mrs. Wiggins very well.

“So refined, such a lady herself,” she enthused. “Unfortunately I had nothing to offer her, your Grace, and she has never returned, although I am sure she said she would do so.” The duke found himself holding his breath as Mrs. Huddlewick searched her records for the name of the inn where Mrs. Wiggins had said she was staying.

Not quite half an hour later, he strode into The Blue Boar, and began to question the innkeeper. The man remembered Mrs. Wiggins only vaguely, but his buxom young wife was much more forthcoming.

“Yes, the lady was a handsome brunette,” she said with an arch smile and a toss of her own black curls. “She ’as been gone over a month now, and ’oo would ’ave thought the likes of ’er would be acquainted with those strange old ladies out at Rutherford ’All?”

“Strange old ladies?” the duke asked, quirking one black eyebrow and trying not to show his sudden excitement.

“Why, yes, your Grace. They sent one of their servants in to fetch the leddy’s baggage, so I guess she was going to stay there. Queer do, that was, too. The silly old thing couldn’t remember if it was Mrs. Wiggins or some other leddy whose portmanteaus she was to pick up.”

“Perhaps the other name was Miss Margaret Nelson?”

“The very one! But when she learned it was Mrs. Regina
Wiggins wot we ’ad ’ere in the inn, she paid ’er shot and took ’er things away to the ’all.”

The duke was quick to learn the direction of Rutherford Hall and, on mentioning that he intended to ride out there immediately to call, was surprised when both the innkeeper and his wife dissolved in helpless laughter.

“I couldn’t advise it, your Grace, not if you intends to return to town with a whole skin,” Mr. Rathbone said, wiping his eyes. “Apt to shoot you more likely than not, that Miss Rutherford would. No, no, safer to send a message, and be sure to hire a
maid
, not a groom, to deliver it. No male ever gets through the gates.”

“Lawks, no,” his wife agreed. “Miss Rutherford do ’ave such an ’atred for men. Don’t know what she’s missing, that she don’t,” she added with another sideways glance at the tall, handsome figure of the duke.

The innkeeper, suddenly aware of his wife’s flirting, banished her to the taproom. As he was accepting the money the duke insisted on giving him for the information, he saw an elderly woman nailing up a poster in the street.

“See there, your Grace, there’s one o’ the wenches from Rutherford ’All now. Best you speak to ’er.”

It was unfortunate that Gertrude had been sent into Brighton with the notices, for she was none too bright, and after several years of living with Miss Horatia she had taken her mistress’s attitude to males as her own personal aversion, so when the duke spoke to her, she gave a startled scream and ran way, leaving the duke to gather what information he could by reading the notice for himself.

If anyone is interested in learning the whereabouts of a Mrs. Regina Wiggins or a Miss Margaret Nelson, they should call at Doctor Jos. E. Spears Surgery at 17 Monk Street between the hours of two and four
p.m.

There was no signature to the handwritten notice. The duke decided that a call on the doctor was not only handier, but also a good deal safer, and that he would, on the whole, prefer to give these strange old ladies who hated men a wide berth, unless he was forced to storm their citadel to rescue Emily from their grasp.

Accordingly, he was at Number Seventeen Monk Street
shortly after two that afternoon. As he prepared to raise the brass knocker, an old lady opened the door to leave, but when she saw the duke’s bow and polite smile, she bustled away with a frown on her round red face.

Doctor Spears was only too happy to welcome the duke and listen to an abbreviated version of his story. “You say the lady is neither Mrs. Wiggins nor Miss Nelson? That her real name is Emily Wyndham?” he asked, moving some papers around on his desk.

“That is correct. Tell me, Doctor Spears, is she indeed at Rutherford Hall?”

“She is there,” the doctor said solemnly, and was startled by the duke’s sudden, blinding white grin.

“At last! I have searched for her for so long and it is so important that I see her as soon as possible,” he said in exultant tones.

“More important than you imagine, your Grace,” the doctor remarked dryly. “I have some news of, er, Miss Wyndham for you that perhaps will be upsetting.”

“There has been an accident? She is not well?” the duke asked, leaping to his feet and leaning over the desk.

“Sit down, sir, and I will tell you everything. Yes, there was an accident about a month ago. Miss Wyndham was walking on the street here in Brighton and was run down by the Rutherfords’ horse. She sustained a blow to the head. No, no, she has completely recovered her health,” he added as he caught sight of the duke’s strained, anxious face, “but although her body has recovered, her mind has not. I believe she is a victim of what Thomas Sydenham in the middle of the seventeenth century first defined as classical hysteria, for she cannot remember anything about her life before the accident. The Rutherford ladies took her in and nursed her, but there was no way to trace her family. You
are
a relative, are you not, your Grace?”

“Not at the moment,” Charles said, his face taut with the shock of what he had just learned. “I intend to marry Miss Wyndham as soon as it can be arranged. I have carried a special license to that effect ever since we became separated.”

“I think you are very wise to do so in this instance. The lady who was leaving when you came in was Miss Hortense Rutherford and she came to report a new development in the
case. The young lady, er, excuse me, Miss Wyndham is pregnant.”

“Pregnant?” the duke whispered.

“Is there any doubt in your mind, sir, that you are the father of the child?” the doctor asked, bending his pale-gray eyes sternly on the man before him.

The duke got up to pace the office. “None at all, I
know
I am the father.”

“And you are prepared to marry the lady, even if she cannot remember you? I must warn you, this hysteria has gone on for so long that there is every possibility she may never regain any knowledge of her former life.”

“How much easier it would be if that should be so,” the duke muttered, causing Doctor Spears to raise his brows. “I see I shall have to explain it all to you, Doctor. It is not a tale that speaks well for our sex, or of me in particular—perhaps the Misses Rutherford are correct in their misanthropy, for Miss Wyndham has had nothing but trouble in her dealings
with men throughout her life.”

The story was soon told, for the doctor did not interrupt him. “I understand now,” he said when Charles had finished.
“I have been reading up on classical hysteria, and although disorders of the brain are in many ways a mystery to the medical profession, Doctor William Cullen of Edinburgh has I written a most learned discourse about what he has named neuroses. This condition most often occurs in life situations involving stress, and it is obvious that Miss Wyndham has been struggling under a great load of troubles. Her loss of memory, her nightmares, could all result from such a neurosis rather than from the blow to her head. And since she is pregnant, of course, she probably is even more affected by this hysteria. That word is from the Greek
hystera
meaning uterus, your Grace. You see the connection? Just so. But she is not insane, sir. I have been watching her closely, and she accepts her condition calmly. You can see how valuable this memory loss can be, protecting her mind from any knowledge of her former stressful life.”

The doctor seemed to recall himself and shrugged. “But enough of that,” he said. “It is an interesting case and all doctors tend to ride their particular hobbyhorses too long for laymen’s tastes. The poor young lady! May I say I honor you for your persistent search and for your determination to wed
her? And if she does not remember you when she first sees you, I suggest you tell her that you were engaged before she lost her memory. You say she loves you, and in this case her scruples must be disregarded, for her pregnancy makes an immediate ceremony imperative. She cannot be more than six weeks along, if the dates you gave me are correct, and many a first baby is not consistent in his term.”

The duke waved an impatient hand, for he was thinking hard. If Emily was not shocked into remembering him, she would be unaware of her determination not to marry him. She would not know of her mother’s reputation or that her tenure as a lady’s maid made their union so unequal, and she would come to him without those clouds over her to mar their happiness. He smiled. He would treat her as if her background more than tallied with his, and then she would take her place as his duchess calmly, with no hesitation or remorse. He felt a little ache that he must trick her this way, but his love for her, and the child, made it necessary.

He wanted to ride out to Rutherford Hall immediately, but Doctor Spears convinced him that it would be better if he made preliminary arrangements.

“I do not know if Miss Horatia will even allow you there,” he said. “She may insist on bringing Miss Wyndham here. Give me your direction, your Grace, and I will get word to you as soon as I can. We are both dependent on the lady’s favor now.”

With this the duke had to be content. In spite of an excellent dinner, accompanied by a bottle of good burgundy, his impatience grew. To think that only six miles away his Lorelei was sleeping. To think that possibly as early as tomorrow she would be in his arms again. He spent a restless night, never dreaming that Emily was sobbing and crying his name at the same time.

Early the next morning, the duke received a note from the doctor saying that they were both expected at Rutherford Hall at eleven in the morning. “Not that we will gain admittance to the hall itself,” the doctor told him when the duke drove up to his office in a hired carriage shortly thereafter. “No, that would be too much to expect. Miss Rutherford has decreed that we advance no closer than the elm tree on the front lawn, where she promises to have Miss Wyndham awaiting us.”

He beguiled the drive by telling the duke everything
he
knew about the Rutherford ladies.

“I do not care how peculiar they are,” the duke declared, his eyes always searching the road ahead. “Their kindness to Miss Wyndham has earned my undying gratitude.”

At last the doctor motioned him to turn his team between a pair of rusty gates, and they were forced to proceed much too slowly up the weedy drive for the duke’s liking. In the distance he could see the giant elm, and there in a lawn chair was Emily, sitting with the old lady he had seen the day before. There was no sign of the elder Miss Rutherford, but the doctor noticed a large screen behind the pair on the lawn and suspected she had hidden herself there to make sure that the duke was genuine and that no harm would come to her young guest.

It is ridiculous to feel so shy and nervous, the duke told himself as he strode across the grass to his love, followed by Doctor Spears. He noticed she had half-risen from her seat, those beautiful emerald eyes wide and with her hand to her throat. It was obvious that no one had prepared her for their visit. Beside her, the elderly lady had also risen and she looked very agitated.

“May I present Miss Hortense Rutherford, your Grace,” the doctor said. From behind the screen came a distinct “Hmmph!”

The duke bowed, dragging his eyes from Emily’s beautiful face with reluctance. “Ma’am,” he said, “your most obedient servant.”

“Oh, dearie me,” the old lady exclaimed, much flustered as she waved her hands. “Please to sit down, your Grace,
Doctor.”

Doctor Spears took the seat she indicated, but Charles moved forward until he was standing before Emily. “Miss Wyndham,” he murmured, bowing again, even deeper this time, and taking her hand in his.

Her green eyes stared at him, but there was no sign of recognition there. “Am I indeed Miss Wyndham, sir?” she asked with a little smile. “I am sure I did not know it.” The duke smiled down at her and she felt a wave of warmth flood her body that was somehow familiar. She also seemed to recognize his black eyes, so intent on her face, but she could summon no other memory of him to her mind.

He sat down beside her, still holding her hand. “You are Miss Wyndham for only a short time longer, my dearest,” he said, causing Miss Hortense to sob and take out her handkerchief to blow her nose. “The good doctor informs me that you cannot remember anything, but you may believe me when I tell you that you are Emily Margaret Wyndham, and that you are my
fiancé
e and, as such, soon to become Emily Saint Allyn, Duchess of Wrotherham.”

Emily’s face paled and the little smile she had had for the duke faded as he felt her hand flutter in his.

“Your
fiancé
e?” she asked in wonder.