The Wyndham Legacy (4 page)

Antonia's lower lip trembled. Gweneth sighed. “Why don't you read a passage aloud for Fanny and me?”

Marcus pulled his raw-boned bay stallion, Stanley, to a halt in front of Pipwell Cottage, as it was called by all the locals, dismounted, and tied the reins to the iron tethering post. He was weary to his bones, angry at the delay, and ultimately, so relieved that at last he'd found the Duchess that he wanted to fling himself to the ground and kiss the dirt, then strangle her for causing everyone such distress, particularly himself.

He'd gone to Rosebud Cottage in Winchelsea over three months before to fetch her, only to find that she was gone, long gone—no one knew where. At least she'd had a servant with her, a man, but surely that was odd, an eighteen-year-old girl traveling alone and living alone with a man, servant or not, old or not.

It had taken him three months to track her down. He wondered if it would have taken three years if Spears hadn't chosen to involve himself. In ways still mystifying to Marcus, Spears had traveled to Winchelsea, where Marcus
had already questioned everyone in the bloody town, offering bribes and making threats. Then he'd gone on to London. He'd stayed in both places for merely two days, then returned to Chase Park, bowed formally to Marcus and gave him a slip of paper that had said simply: Pipwell Cottage, Smarden, Kent.

She'd been alone, except for that man servant, for nearly six months.

Marcus calmed himself. He'd found her. At least Pipwell Cottage wasn't a slum property. It looked charming in its early summer plumage, and there were at least a dozen oak trees and lush, green maple, larch, and lime trees as well. The small yews lining the path leading to the front door were neatly trimmed, the granite slab path itself smooth and firm beneath his feet. There were myriad plants behind the yews and set in symmetrical beds as well, roses and dahlias he recognized, but others too, huge blooms and giving a riot of color. The cottage was painted white, the window boxes white as well, trimmed with red paint. It was a very snug little property. Too snug, too prosperous.

However did she pay for it? He again dismissed the recurring thought that she, like her mother, had a protector. No, he thought, not the Duchess. Too much pride in that girl, much too much.

He realized as he strode to the front door, with its window boxes on either side dripping with roses and hydrangeas and primroses as purple as the black eye he'd given to Jimmy Watts eighteen years before, that all he wanted was to find her healthy and well fed.

He knocked and continued to pray.

Badger opened the door and stared at the young gentleman who was staring back at him.

Marcus blinked in confusion, and said slowly, “You live here now, sir? You are the owner of the cottage? The Duch—Miss Cochrane has moved away?”

“Aye, I live here,” Badger said, not budging an inch from the doorway.

Marcus cursed, earning a spark of interest from Badger.

“You were in the Peninsula then, sir?” Badger said.

“Yes, but now I'm a damned earl and I had to sell out.”

“May I be allowed to ask your lordship which damned earl you would be?”

“Chase, the earl of Chase.”

“That,” Badger said slowly, readying himself for a fight, “is quite impossible. You'd best take your leave, sir. I won't be asking you again, if you take my meaning.” He moved to stand more squarely in the doorway and Marcus saw those huge hands of his curl into fists.

Marcus, no fool, knew the man was ready to spring for his throat. But he didn't understand why. “It's true, I'm the new earl of Chase. The, er, eighth earl, not the seventh. I had hoped Miss Cochrane still lived here. I have come for her, you see. She was forgotten after her father's death, and then when Mr. Crittaker remembered her, I went immediately to Winchelsea but she was gone. It's taken me another three months to find her and now she's gone again.”

Badger eyed him up and down. “You're Marcus Wyndham?”

“Yes, I am.”

“The old earl called you the devil's own son. You are he?”

Marcus grinned. “My uncle never minced matters. Aye, I'll own up to it.”

“You're telling me that her father is dead?”

“Yes, he died nearly six months ago. He was thrown from his horse and died instantly. She's still here then? You are her servant?”

“So that's why no one came for her. Strange that neither of us considered such a possibility. I assume it was an accident?” At the young man's nod, Badger said, “The Duchess used to speak of you when she returned from Chase Park. Actually, she said only that you were the one who named her Duchess, and that you were the devil's own son. I don't
believe, sir, that she has much liking for you.”

Marcus laughed. “I don't care if she hates the very grass I tread upon, just tell me that she is all right.”

“Aye, she is just fine.”

“She is eating sufficiently?”

“Aye, she eats enough.”

“But how does she afford this cottage?”

“That, sir,” Badger said, suddenly as austere as a bishop, “you'd best ask Miss Cochrane. If I may ask, sir, why are you here?”

“Would you like to invite me inside? I do need to speak with her, as you just suggested. Incidentally, who are you?”

“I am Badger. I look after the Duchess as I did her mother before her. I am her chef as well.”

“Ah,” Marcus said. “You cook?”

The huge, ugly man nodded and finally stood aside for Marcus to enter. He did, striding into a small entryway. A staircase rose just beyond him, leading to the upper floor of the cottage. He smelled roasting meat just off to his left, potent and rich. His stomach growled and his mouth began to water. He thought he heard a woman humming a neat little tune.

“Wait here, sir,” Badger said, and left Marcus without a backward look. He opened a door to the right and disappeared through it, closing it behind him. The humming stopped abruptly.

Marcus tapped his riding crop against his thigh. He was hungry, tired, and couldn't believe that he'd been left to stand in a narrow hallway by a man who was a maid and a chef, but a man who spoke English like a little Etonian gentleman.

At least she was all right. At least she wasn't alone. But who was paying for this cottage? Her food? Her cook?

When the door opened again, Badger said, “You may come in, sir. Miss Cochrane will see you now.”

Like she's the bloody queen, Marcus thought, irritated. The room was small, but pleasant. It had a lived-in feeling,
that's what it was, a very welcoming feeling, and felt wonderfully cozy. There were stacks of London newspapers on the floor beside a blue brocade settee. Odd that he saw those newspapers before he noticed her, stacks and stacks of them.

It had been five years.

She was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen in his life. She'd more than fulfilled the promise he'd seen in her when she was thirteen. It wasn't that she was gowned gloriously because she wasn't. She was wearing a simple muslin of dark gray, its collar nearly to her chin, the sleeves tapering down her arms to button tightly around her wrists. Her black hair was in fat plaits interwoven atop her head. She wore no jewelry. There was a smudge of ink on her cheek. She was standing utterly still, just looking at him, not moving even a fingertip. He remembered that stillness of hers, the aloofness, the serenity that sat so oddly on the shoulders of a young girl.

She was more beautiful than she should be. He said, “What are you doing with all those newspapers?”

“Hello to you, Marcus.”

“Ah, hello, Duchess. It's been a while.”

She merely nodded. “Badger tells me that my father is dead and that was why no one ever came for me. Odd, isn't it? Dead or alive, I was still forgotten.”

“Yes, Crittaker nearly choked himself to death when he informed me of it over three months ago. I'm sorry it happened. I am here to fetch you back to Chase Park with me.”

She frowned at him, still not moving. She didn't even offer him her hand or her cheek to kiss. She was his damned first cousin, for God's sake, yet she was standing six feet away from him, and her frown was becoming more pronounced.

He realized in that moment that he'd given her a profound shock. First her mother and now her father, both of them dead within weeks of each other.

“I'm sorry about your father. He was my uncle and I was fond of him. He had a quick death, there was no suffering.”

“Thank you for telling me that. I thought he had forgotten me, that he no longer wanted me since my mother had died.”

“Now you know he did want you at Chase Park. He had no say in what happened to him.”

Badger appeared in the open doorway. “The duckling is perfect now, Duchess. It sits on a platter with small boiled potatoes around it and some fresh green beans. I decorated the potatoes with snipped-off bits of parsley. I also made some apple tarts, your favorite. Would you care to have dinner now? Would you like to have his lordship join us?”

She nodded, clearly distracted.

“Are you hungry, sir?”

“Yes, I have ridden hard all day. Is it possible for someone to see to my stallion?”

“You will have to see to your own horse,” she said. “Badger hasn't the time to do it.”

“I see,” Marcus said. He turned on his heel and strode out of the small drawing room.

Badger called after him, “There is a shed behind the cottage. You may stable your horse there.”

Marcus didn't say anything further. He was perfectly capable of looking after Stanley, but what he wasn't used to, what he couldn't seem to accept, was the fact that the Duchess was living alone with a man who spoke the English of a gentleman, was also her chef and decorated a roasted duckling with boiled potatoes and parsley. Even though Badger was ugly as a gnarly old oak and old enough to be her father, still, it just wasn't right. What was going on here?

She didn't look on the verge of starvation. She'd been humming when he arrived and she had a spot of ink on her left cheek. And she looked so beautiful he'd just wanted to
stand there and stare at her, at least until Badger had come in and announced that dinner was served. As far as he knew, there had been no provision at all for her in his uncle's will, thus his growing fear over the past four months. As far as he knew, she had nothing.

What was going on here?

M
ARCUS PUSHED BACK
his plate, sighed with pleasure, and folded his hands over his lean belly. The Duchess had finished some time before and was simply sitting there, calm and composed, not ruffled in the least by his presence, as if having a man to dinner was a daily occurrence. She merely waited: waited for him to finish, waited for him to speak, just waited as silent and calm as she had always been since he'd first met her when she'd been nine years old. She was slowly turning her wineglass between her fingers, a wineglass of good quality, he saw, surely a wineglass made of fine crystal that clearly cost a few guineas. It must be part of an expensive set. Who had paid for them? The man who ate evening meals with her?

He said easily, with deep appreciation, “Badger is a chef of great ability. The parsley was a nice touch. Greenery enhanced the paleness of the potatoes and highlighted the duck.”

“Yes, it was a touch of artistry. He is a man of many abilities.”

“Such as?”

She merely shrugged, looking as unruffled as could be, dismissing his sharp question as an impertinence, as he supposed it was.

“You're looking well,” he said. “Everyone was very worried about you.”

After they'd finally remembered she even existed, she thought, but said only, “Thank you. You have quite grown
up yourself. Were you a gentleman of leisure before my fath—before the earl died?”

“Oh no, I was a major in the army. I had to sell out after my uncle's death. I didn't want his damned title, though I know he never believed that, and I honestly didn't care that I was his nominal heir. Like everyone else, I believed he would remarry after my aunt died in childbed, and continue to try procreating a male child. Undoubtedly he would have succeeded if he hadn't died.”

“It is odd. I wonder why he didn't remarry.”

“He was killed only seven months after my aunt died. To have remarried before a year—well, perhaps eight or nine months given his need—would have laid him open to censure. My uncle was conscious of others' opinions.”

“He visited my mother often after the countess died. Indeed, he spent most of his time with her. He'd changed so much after Charlie and Mark's deaths. At least those last months were very happy.”

Marcus wasn't particularly surprised to hear that. After all, his uncle was always a lusty man who paid to have his mistress constantly at his disposal. However, he didn't say this aloud, not to his uncle's bastard daughter. He only nodded. He said abruptly, “Do you resemble your mother?”

“Yes, but as you probably have noticed, I have my father's eyes and his black hair. My mother's hair was incredible, all gold and blond.” She paused a moment, then said easily, “I know what you're thinking. A man has the same mistress for twenty years—it boggles the mind. My mother was always beautiful, always charming, always here for him. She never carped at him, never demanded. She loved him, you see.”

“Yes, I see,” he said quietly. “I'm sorry, Duchess.”

“Your apple tarts,” Badger said, coming quietly into the small room. Marcus wondered if he'd overheard their conversation and picked his moment of entry. If he had, it wasn't badly done.

“Thank you, Badger. They look delicious,” she said, smiling up at him. She said to Marcus, “You will be quite prepared to give up all your wealth after you have tasted Badger's apple tarts.”

Marcus smiled, and forked down a bite. He closed his eyes. “My tongue couldn't offer an insult if it tried,” he said, grinning. The Duchess merely nodded, saying, “It's difficult to believe that you really didn't care, that you didn't want the title and all the wealth that goes along with it.”

He shrugged. “I didn't care, it's true. I was quite content with my life as it was. I didn't want to sell out. I was only the son of a second son, but I was needed. I like to think that I made a difference, that my judgments affected the outcome of at least a few events. At least I pray I saved some lives and didn't stupidly waste any.”

“Did you spend all your years in the Peninsula?”

He nodded. “I joined up in August of 1808, right after Charlie and Mark drowned. The Spanish refused to have us help them in Spain so we went directly to Portugal, to Figueria de Foz, near Coimbra. My commander was Wellington.” He paused, then looked a bit embarrassed. “Sorry for boring on about it.”

“Please continue,” she said, and nothing more.

He looked at her askance because no woman before in his life, including his mother, had ever wanted to know what he'd done. He leaned forward, saying slowly, “Napoleon subdued Spain then headed to Lisbon, traveling through Talavera and Elvas.”

Suddenly the Duchess said, “Didn't Napoleon say, ‘I shall hunt the English out of the Peninsula. Nothing can for long withstand the fulfillment of my wishes'?”

“I believe he said something like that,” Marcus said, frowning at her.

“Do go on.”

He winced, remembering, saying to her, “There was this awful mid-winter crossing, led by Sir John Moore through
the Galician mountains, but we managed to outrun the French. There was little food, the animals—” He shook his head, looking at her now, hating those damned memories, seeing the faces of his men, of officers he'd called friend, so many of them dead now, and he'd not been able to do anything to help. “No,” he said, “that is quite enough tonight.”

“What do you think of the armistice made by Napoleon after he beat the Prussian armies at Lützen and Bautzen?”

Marcus shrugged. “We will see how long it lasts. None of the men I know think it will go much beyond the summer, if that.”

“Is it true that Wellington wishes all his generals to avoid fighting Napoleon directly, that Wellington always tries to go up against his marshals?”

He was truly surprised, for few people knew of it. “How do you know of this?”

“I read,” she said flatly, and he knew that he'd insulted her, treating her like a lady, in other words, like a bit of fluff with nothing noteworthy between her beautifully shaped ears.

“Yes, you're quite right. Wellington has said that Napoleon's presence on a battlefield is worth forty thousand men, not just men, soldiers.”

She sat forward, resting her elbows on the table. The candlelight was soft, the room quiet, the apple tarts sitting unnoticed on their plates. “That is excellent. I'd never heard that. Is it also true that it wasn't the Russian winter that defeated Napoleon but rather the Russians themselves?”

“Yes, but there are arguments about that. Needless to say, all who deem Napoleon the greatest military leader of all time blame the vicious Russian winter. I have heard it said that the Russians learned from Napoleon's victories and copied him, thus defeating him at his own game.”

“And don't forget that his supply lines broke down. Imagine the distances from the West all the way to Moscow! It quite boggles the mind to imagine how much food would
be necessary, and clothing and equipment.”

“Yes,” Marcus said, “imagine.” He couldn't help himself, he was staring at her and continued to stare at her. Did she have a protector who was in the army or navy? Is this how she knew so much? He said abruptly, “How long will it take you to be ready to leave?”

“Leave? I beg your pardon?”

“You are coming back with me to Chase Park, naturally.”

“There is nothing natural about it that I can see,” she said, and to his surprise, he saw her hand clench into a fist. The Duchess making a bloody fist? No, surely he was seeing things, not something so violent as a fist, not the bloody Duchess. Whatever had he said to ruffle her serene feathers? He couldn't imagine that bloodless, elegant hand fisting.

“You should have been living at Chase Park for the past six months. I have apologized for what happened. There is nothing more I can say. I've spent the past months trying to find you. Now that I have, I'm here to offer you a home, proper chaperonage, and if you wish to go to London for a Season, you will certainly go. I will also see that you have a sufficient dowry. With your looks and your show of interest in military matters, I daresay that you will have many offers of marriage, at least from lonely officers home on leave.”

She merely looked at him, still again, her hands smoothed out on the white tablecloth. He noticed ink stains on her fingers, and said, “If marriage is what you want. But what else is there for a lady?”

“No,” she said calmly. “No, I don't want marriage. This is my home now. It is kind of you to search me out, but a long time has passed and I find that I am become self-sufficient. I have no need of a Season or a dowry. Or a husband. There are things for a lady, Marcus, other than marriage.”

“How have you become self-sufficient? Is there a soldier you met after your mother's death? Is it he who has told
you—” Marcus shrugged then, his mouth shutting, but his meaning was quite clear, appallingly clear.

She smiled at him, but it was a cold smile, one that held infinite secrets and a serious level of anger. But as usual, there was no sound of anger in her cool voice. “That, sir, is none of your business. Your line of reasoning is interesting, however. My knowledge of military matters or my interest in such occurrences as Napoleon's failure to survive in Russia obviously can't spring from my own brain, but it has to come, rather, from another—specifically, from a military man who is doubtless keeping me in this charming cottage, just as your uncle kept my mother in Rosebud Cottage.”

He hunched forward and smacked his fist onto the table. “Damnation, Duchess, I didn't mean that. Are you forgetting that I am your cousin? That I am the damned head of the Wyndham family and am thus responsible for you now?”

“You are my cousin, true, but I am nothing but a bastard. You owe me nothing at all, Marcus. Certainly you aren't responsible for me. My father was, but like most men he must have believed himself immortal. Thus, he made no provision for me. However, I find now that I quite enjoy being on my own.”

“You are eighteen years old. You are a gentlewoman. You cannot be on your own.”

“I am nearly nineteen, and the fact remains that I am on my own and I am a bastard. Don't put respectable icing on this particular cake, for it doesn't fit.”

He felt equal parts of anger and frustration. Here he was, a perfect knight errant, and the damsel was refusing his assistance. The devil of it was she didn't even appear to be at all in distress.

Suddenly, she laughed. “I can see exactly what you are thinking. You have gone to all this trouble to save your poor bastard cousin and she is turning you down. Goodness, she is turning you down after feeding you probably the best
dinner you've enjoyed in many a long evening. I'm sorry, Marcus, but there it is.”

“No, it isn't. You will pack your things and you will return with me to Chase Park. I would never serve your father and my uncle such a turn. I would like to leave tomorrow. Can Badger have everything ready?”

She didn't appear to be paying any attention to him. She was looking off into space, her eyes narrowed in profound thought, or something. All of a sudden, she began to hum a tune he'd never heard before. “Excuse me,” she said abruptly, and rose from her chair. “Don't go away, Marcus. I shall return very soon.”

She was gone from the small dining room, leaving the earl of Chase there with a half-eaten apple tart on his plate and a look of utter incomprehension on his face wondering how the devil she was managing. And now she'd run out on him without a by-your-leave.

“Would you like a brandy, my lord? Or perhaps port or claret?”

“Port,” he said. He sipped at the port, waiting for her to return. Fifteen minutes passed and there was no sign of her. He said to Badger, who had just come into the small dining room to clear the dishes from the table, “What is she doing?”

“I couldn't say.”

“Of course you can but you won't, will you? Come, Badger, how the hell does she afford this cottage? How does she afford to have you? There's a man, isn't there? He's a military man and he's footing all the bills.”

“You will speak to Miss Cochrane, my lord.”

“I wish to leave tomorrow. Can you be ready, Badger?”

Badger straightened to his full height, which would make many a short man envious. “You will discuss this with Miss Cochrane.” Then he softened, adding, “You must understand loyalty, sir. You were in the army. There is little more precious than absolute loyalty.”

Marcus sighed and set down his port. “You're right, naturally. Do you think the Duchess would mind if I tracked her down now?”

“I believe I hear her returning. Ah, sir, it is doubtless difficult for her, just learning that her father had been dead for six months, learning that he did want her and didn't forget her, that instead the rest of you forgot her. There has been too much death for her in the past months.”

“She has hidden it well,” Marcus said. “No tears, no sobs, nothing. No pleas, no explanations, no pleasure in seeing me or agreeing with anything I say.”