The Wyndham Legacy (26 page)

“Let's go,” Marcus said. He fetched the library key from Sampson and he and James went into the gloomy room. Marcus threw back the thick draperies. Bright afternoon light poured into the room. “Let's open some windows as well. This place needs a good airing.”

He turned to see James on his knees gently pulling out books all along the second bookshelf from the bottom. There were no volumes behind the outside books.

While James replaced the books, Marcus removed those on the shelf above. Still nothing.

They continued, saying nothing much, until James let out a cry. “Goodness, here's something, Marcus.”

He pulled a very old thick book, that sent up billows of choking dust when he lifted it. It was set behind sermons of a certain George Common, an itinerant preacher of the early last century.

“It's just as old,” Marcus said. “Here, James, put it on the desktop.

“Well,” Marcus said after a few moments, “I'll be damned and redamned. Your brain is good, James, very good.”

“My mother believes so,” James said with a cocky grin. “I'll have to admit that she gave me the idea when she was carping on about the treasure and how to find it. And keep you from finding out, naturally.”

“Let's see the back pages.”

“Marcus, I know you suspect my mother of striking down the Duchess. I know someone in the house is responsible—but my mother? It's difficult to swallow.”

“There's always Trevor or you or Ursula.”

“I see your point,” James said as he gently turned the pages.

 

Marcus looked at her closely, decided she was being honest, and said, “Very well, so your belly isn't going to revolt in the next two minutes. Here is the book James found. You'll note there are no pictures, just writing. I've gone through it completely and translated it as best I could. The monk or monks who wrote it and the other two tomes tells us here where to find the abbey treasure. His rhyme is about as intelligible and lucid as my translation of it.

“Look above to find your sign.
Look hard to find the number nine.

Take it to the shallow well.
Beneath the oak tree in the dell.

Bring a stout bucket and a cord.
Prepare to kill it with your sword.

Lean down deep but do beware.
The monster lives forever in his lair.

The Janus-faced nines will bring the beast.
But be quick or be the creature's feast.”

“My translation is adequate at best, but what is this about a monster? The beast lives in the well? And a nine that is Janus-faced? A deceitful nine? That's a kicker, isn't it? What do you think, Duchess?”

“That oak tree and well I've been looking for—why, that's it, Marcus.”

“Well, it can't be that simple. There's still this nonsense about looking up to find this number nine, whatever the
devil that means. And the monster in the well—”

“My lord.”

“Yes, Spears, what is it?”

“Mr. Trevor Wyndham wishes to see you.”

“Shall I allow him in your bedchamber, Duchess? The bloody rake just might get the wrong idea. He's a man and he's got too much experience for my peace of mind and you're looking particularly fetching and vulnerable, a combination to drive any man wild with lust.”

“Do show Mr. Wyndham in, Spears,” she said. “My husband will surely protect my virtue.”

He was huge and dark and excessively handsome, this cousin of hers. She realized that Marcus was regarding him with a vicious look and said, “Hello, Trevor. Have you come to see the book James found?”

“You look lovely, Duchess. You're feeling more the thing now? Has this boorish dolt been wearying you? Shall I remove him and perhaps challenge him to a duel of wit?”

“My wit, Trevor, will always make yours look like a withered stump. However, I have a dueling pistol that trains its sights automatically on bloody Americans. Particularly hungry Americans who look like slavering wolves at my wife.”

“You mean, Duchess, there are other men just like me who slaver like wolves at you?”

“If there were others, they're long gone now. Being vilely ill tends to dampen ardor, I should say.”

“Your repartee is grating on my nerves,” Marcus said, rising. He found himself staring right in Trevor's eyes. “Damn you, I wouldn't have minded you being a fop, a mincing little dandy. Then I could have mocked you or ignored you, as the mood took me.”

Trevor grinned his white-toothed grin, saying, “Sorry, Marcus, but the last time I was little I was five years old. Now, you two, James showed me the rhyme. Nothing else but that? An entire volume filled with nonsense about the abbey's woes with signing the Act of Supremacy, their
worries that King Henry would accuse them of owing their allegiance to the pope and not to him, which was, naturally, quite true. Then at the end, just that fool poem about the treasure?”

“That's about it,” Marcus said. “I can't imagine that you'd have any ideas. You don't, do you?”

“Let me see the book and I'll tell you.”

After ten minutes, Marcus said sharply, “Take the bloody thing and give it to your mother. We've got the poem that is surely an aberration of our mad monk's mind. There's nothing else that James or I could see helpful. A monster in a well, a nine that is Janus-faced—two nines together yet facing apart. It seems like a mess of nonsense.”

“It does, but I'll give it to my mother. She's nearly bursting her seams with curiosity, and fury at James, of course, for drawing you into it, Marcus. The poem will keep her occupied, at least for a short time.”

“Trevor,” the Duchess said after he'd left her bedchamber, “isn't remotely a fop.”

“No, he's more the beast in the well, the bloody scavenger.”

T
HE
D
UCHESS SLAPPED
her riding crop against her boot. She felt wonderful, her belly was happy with Badger's scones and honey, and she'd ridden Birdie without incident all around the St. Swale's Abbey, to the north this time. She just hadn't found anything. No oak tree, no dell, no bucket, no well, nothing. Not even a monster of any repute, not even a nine that was just a simple nine, much less a nine that was front-faced and one that was backward.

But she wasn't cast down, oh no. She couldn't wait to see Marcus. The past three days he'd not come to her bed, but he hadn't avoided her; he'd been as assiduous in his attentions to her as a mother superior to the Virgin Mary herself. She wanted to pound him into the ground for not acting remotely like he should act, like he'd always acted since she'd met him when she was nine years old—irritating her until she was raging at him, mocking her, making her want to kill him and kiss him and tease him. No, he was acting like a reasonable man, a man who was calm and deliberate, a passionless man she disliked immensely.

She began to whistle a tune that had popped into her mind and still hadn't words yet to go with it. She had the idea though. It made her grin just to think of the Congress of Vienna and how Caroline Lamb and Lord Byron should attend. Just imagine what those two could achieve in the way of new boundaries for conquered countries.

She was still whistling when she turned the corner around a huge row of yew bushes that gave onto the front drive. There was a carriage with its four horses blowing and the
door was open and there was Marcus helping down a very delicious piece of feminine confection, and this delicious piece was dressed elegantly in a traveling gown of dark green with a matching bonnet tied charmingly beneath her chin. One dainty foot was showing in a soft kid traveling boot of matching dark green.

She watched Marcus raise her gloved hand to his mouth, his eyes never leaving the woman's face. She heard a clear, sweet laugh. She saw the woman lightly stroke her gloved fingers over his cheek. She saw her go up on her tiptoes and kiss him right on his mouth.

She saw red.

“How dare you! Get your hands off my husband. Marcus, get your mouth off hers, you rotten sod!”

She skittered to a halt when the lovely creature turned to look at her, clear gray eyes wide with what? Puzzlement? Amusement? She didn't know.

“Oh,” the woman said sweetly, “and who are you? Do you work perchance in his lordship's stables?”

“She does anything I tell her to do,” Marcus said, and patted the woman's hand, “a good thing in a woman. Actually, Celeste, you can call her the Duchess. She's the wife of mine I wrote to you about.”

Celeste!

The red she saw was turning more crimson by the moment. “You told me you probably lied, you wretched real liar! You didn't, you wouldn't dare bring her here, you rarefied lout. Gracious heavens, I'll kill you!”

She didn't think, just acted. She'd already struck him with a riding crop. She needed something else. There wasn't anything else unless she could rip a branch from that time tree, and that damned branch was too high for her to reach. She sat down in the driveway, pulled off her riding boot, leapt back to her feet and headed straight at him, swinging it over her head.

She yelled as she swung, “I told you I would make you sorry. Oh, why don't I ever have a gun when I need it?”

She struck him hard on his shoulder. He quickly set Celeste away from him. “Now, Duchess, you have been ill, you know. I've been a saint these past days, allowing you to rest your fill, but I'm a man, Duchess. Surely you don't want to be a selfish wife, one who doesn't see beyond the needs of her own sick belly. Celeste here is really quite congenial. She'll see to me quite nicely. There's no reason for you to be upset or to worry.”

“I haven't been ill in four days.
Four
days and you've acted like a man bent on obtaining sainthood through celibacy! You haven't even yelled at me once. You haven't even made me want to hit you a single time. You've been a bloodless fool and I've hated you.” She swung viciously and the heel hit his forearm hard. Where was that woman? Ah, she was still hiding behind Marcus. No matter that she was a woman, she was a coward and the Duchess despised her for it.

Sampson and two footmen appeared on the top steps. From the corner of her eye, she saw one of the footmen take a step forward, only to be brought up by Sampson. Good, that meant Sampson was on her side. She hit him again.

Marcus backed up three steps. “Really, Duchess, your damned boot?”

“How dare you bring her here!” she shrieked. “You could have gone to London on business, like most bloody men, damn you. You could have pretended. You will pay for this perfidy, Marcus!” She struck him two more times with that boot heel, one a very gratifying thud against his right shoulder.

“Duchess, your aim is getting too good. Stop it now.” He rubbed his shoulder and his right arm. “Aren't you tired now? All that hopping about on one foot—and your stocking is quite ruined—surely you're getting fatigued.”

“I will remove your head from your neck, Marcus Wyndham! I'll strangle you with my ruined stocking. I have no intention of getting tired until you're writhing in death throes on the ground.”

She raised the boot again, so enraged she was pounding with it. Then something got through to her. He wasn't angry, he was laughing.
Laughing!

At her.

She stopped cold and stared at him. The woman was peeping out from behind him. She didn't appear to be the least bit perturbed or frightened. If the Duchess wasn't mistaken, the woman looked ready to break into hysterical laughter along with her bloody husband.

She raised the boot again, then very slowly lowered it. She sat back on the ground, pulled the boot on, and rose.

She raised her fist at him, then realized that he was nearly doubled over with laughter.

She jumped at him, flailing at him, hitting him as hard as she could, yanking on his hair. He had his arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides, and still she struggled. He held her there until she quieted.

“So, that once tranquil, speechless creature is well and truly buried. You've a strong right fist, Duchess. No, don't try to kill me again, consider me already suitably maimed.”

“You bastard, let me go.”

“Well, if I do, do you promise not to fetch a pistol and shoot me?”

She kicked him in the shin.

He grunted, then pulled her hard to the side of him. “Now, would you like to meet Celeste Crenshaw? Isn't she charming? She adores me, was perfectly willing to come all the way north so I wouldn't be deprived.”

She was making a great fool of herself. He'd done this on purpose. He'd quite made her lose her good sense. Quite simply, he'd done her in.

She tried to take a deep, calming breath. It was very difficult. She still tried, saying finally, knowing she didn't have but a few moments to salvage her pride and the situation, “Hello, Celeste,” in surely a voice that was too shrill and too loud. “So you are here to take this lout out of my bed. I'm delighted, truly. I was angry at him
for quite something else. Please understand, I'm ecstatic you're here. I'm quite tired of pleading endless headaches and endless toe aches. Do you know that I have even tried to make myself become ill to keep him away from me? Ah, yes, now that you're here, I shall be able to smile again. I am so very hungry, but to eat would have made him think that my sickness was all an act. I won't have to pretend to illness any more. Now I can eat. Thank you, Celeste. Shall I show you to your room or would you prefer to sleep with his lordship in his bedchamber?”

She was well aware that his hands were tightening on her upper arms. She looked up at him, giving him a lot of white teeth. “Do forgive me for acting the shrew, Marcus. It is just that you took me off guard. Now that I see the magnificent benefits Miss Crenshaw offers to both of us, I realize quite clearly what a wonderful, thoughtful husband I have. Oh, my dearest Marcus, you are far too kind to me.”

“I will kill you,” he said between his teeth. He began to shake her, then stopped abruptly. “No, if I continue to shake you, you just might vomit in the rosebushes again. Mr. Biggs, the head gardener, was near to tears about it. You quite ruined his new bush. No, I shan't do that again. Now, madam—”

He paused, then he began to lightly caress her upper arms. His eyes were very blue. “If I'm a wonderful, kind husband, why you, Duchess, you are an equally magnificent wife. Now, if you don't mind, Celeste is doubtless fatigued—from thirst, you understand. Don't fret, my dear. I will see her to a chamber and take care of her needs.” He patted her cheek, kissed her forehead as chastely as would an uncle, and turned to the young woman who hadn't said anything.

“See how lovely she is, Celeste? And here you were worried that she might not find you as charming as I do. Now, let me take you to your bedchamber and assist you out of that traveling gown. It is wrinkled and you do look heated—well, not really wrinkled and in truth it's I
who am heated. Yes, a nice cool bath—ah, I'll wash your back for you—and then we will enjoy the remainder of the afternoon.”

“Marcus.”

“Yes, Duchess?” he said, turning.

“If you do not take your hands off her, I will do something that you will surely regret.”

He dropped his hands immediately. “Now what, Duchess?”

“If you laugh at me again, I will also do something that you will surely regret.”

“Not a stitch of laughter in this body, Duchess.”

“Good. Now, Miss Crenshaw, you will follow Sampson and he will take you to your bedchamber.”

Miss Crenshaw shook her head and giggled. “I think, my Lord Chase, my lady, that this is a stalemate. Both of you have done remarkable things to the other. You two have entertained me more in the past ten minutes than I have been for the past year at Drury Lane. And to think that his lordship even paid me ten guineas for my presence here. Thank you so much for allowing me to remain. Ah, may I remain, my lord, for just tonight? Oh, yes, my name is Hannah Crenshaw. Not this Celeste, a name that is obviously made up for it sounds quite silly really.”

“Tonight is fine,” the Duchess said. “You are too beautiful, however, to remain longer. I will see that his lordship is locked in his bedchamber. Badger is a fine cook. You just might want to stay, along with our American relatives, but you can't.”

Miss Crenshaw giggled again and walked away from them, her bearing more sedate and elegant than the Duchess's.

The Duchess turned back to her husband, saw that he was nearly fit to burst with laughter, and slammed her fist in his belly. He grunted for her, then brought her against him, hugging her hard.

“I had you for a full five minutes. You're more ferocious than even Spears and Badger believed you'd be. Maggie wanted to wager that you'd return to being a silent stick, and fade away in quiet misery, but Badger said no, you'd wallop the daylights out of my poor body. Spears just sniffed and told me that the entire charade wasn't worthy of the earl of Chase.”

She simply stared at him now for a very long time. Finally, she began to rub at his chest and arms where she'd struck him. “I didn't hurt you, did I?”

“Yes, I'm in frightful pain.”

She switched from rubbing vigorously to caressing. He said in a sigh, “We have quite an audience, Duchess. There is Mr. Biggs, over there, hiding behind the rosebushes you nearly killed, doubtless there to protect his new blooms.”

“I know,” she said, stood on her tiptoes and kissed his mouth. She stared at him, lightly kissing his chin, his jaw, his ear. “You will never bore me, Marcus.”

“You think you bore me? You just pulled off your left boot and beat me with it. Never would I have expected such a unique attack.”

“A lady must make do with what she has available.”