Читать книгу The Duke's Suspicion - Susanna Craig - Страница 13

Chapter 4

Mrs. Dean led Erica briskly down corridors and up staircases. The first impression of Hawesdale Chase was not an illusion. The place was vast. The housekeeper was saying something about the west wing, the dining room, a ballroom, but Erica hardly heard her. Her mind was still back in the servants’ hall.

Erica had two brothers and she loved them both. But she had never looked at either of them with the naked devotion she had seen in Lady Viviane’s eyes. Nor, in her estimation, was it wise to do so. Brothers were, when all else was stripped away, only men. And adoration gave men a dangerous degree of power.

“The family apartments are in the east wing,” Mrs. Dean was explaining when she dragged her attention back to the present. “You’ll be here in the south…with the other guests.” She paused and turned toward Erica. “You’ll be thinking the family doesn’t know what’s seemly in a time of mourning. It’s just—oh, dear.”

Mourning? Guilt needled Erica like a thorn. Of course. She should have realized. That explained Lady Viviane’s tears and black dress.

“It’s just the rain,” Erica supplied as her mind frantically tried to piece together the bits of conversation that had flown among Tristan, his sister, and the housekeeper. She had not considered that his father might have died quite recently.

“Aye, miss.” Mrs. Dean resumed walking, though her pace had slowed. “’Twas clarty then too.” Clarty? Erica’s expression must have betrayed her ignorance, for Mrs. Dean was quick to explain. “Muddy, messy. Rained like anything the day of the accident.”

“The…accident?” Erica struggled to make sense of it all, though she knew her tangled brain would never keep everything straight. Mourning etiquette. The floor plan of a ducal manor. Already details were skittering away. Who was Percy, who’d made some promise Tristan was expected to keep?

“The Duke of Raynham was killed in a carriage accident with his elder son, Lord Hawes. Oh, a terrible thing it was.” Mrs. Dean shook her head. “’Course, one must expect rain in the spring of the year.”

Erica’s thoughts sprang up like weeds in an unkempt garden, impossible to contain once they’d gone to seed… Seed. Springtime was the season for planting. But it was autumn now. The leaves were falling from the trees. Trees. Family trees.

Inwardly, she shook herself, trying to regain focus. An accident had claimed Tristan’s father and brother no more than a few months ago. He’d come into his title unexpectedly—and reluctantly, if the inheritance had come at the price of losing his father and brother.

“No wonder he was hesitant about returning home,” she murmured to herself.

But Mrs. Dean had heard. “He would have been here sooner, but he was abroad when the accident happened, miss,” the housekeeper said, her round notes of her broad northern accent suddenly clipped.

Erica’s thoughtless remark had snuffed Mrs. Dean’s loquaciousness as completely as a gust of damp wind put out a candle. They passed along the corridor in silence until the housekeeper paused to open a door. “Here we be, miss,” she said.

Others might have noted the plush carpet, the velvet bed hangings, or the elegant furnishings. Erica’s eyes went first to the tall, pieced windows framing rugged hills, closer and more imposing than she had imagined. To the left and right, she could just see the two wings of the house as Mrs. Dean had described, east and west. Or was it west and east?

“The rooms overlooking the park are prettier, to my mind,” Mrs. Dean said, sounding apologetic, “but there isn’t one to be had, I’m afraid. The Pilkingtons took the last.”

“It’s—” Magnificent, she had been about to say.

But she bit off the word just in time. She was the daughter of a Dublin solicitor, a well-respected gentleman in that town. Her mother was the daughter of an earl—albeit disowned by him for the unforgiveable sin of falling in love with an Irishman. Erica had grown up in a prosperous and genteel household. If she was rarely mistaken for an elegant lady, neither was she a bumpkin.

She refused to be awestruck by a mere room.

“It will do very nicely,” she said to Mrs. Dean, who curtsied in acknowledgment. “Thank you.”

Left alone, Erica set out to examine her surroundings more thoroughly. She would not be overwhelmed by a bedchamber twice the size of her family’s drawing room.

Nor would she be impressed by the way things appeared in that chamber as if summoned by magic, conveyed by a bevy of servants before she could even think to ask for them: hot bathwater, hotter tea, even a pair of slippers that fitted her tolerably well.

Once bathed and dressed in a clean shift and clean stockings, she thrust her arms into the sleeves of an overlarge silk dressing gown and sat down before a mirror in an ornate frame. Her fingers traced the handle of a silver-backed brush.

No, she would not allow her opinion of the Duke of Raynham to be influenced in any way by these signs of his extraordinary wealth, for which she did not give a fig. Nor by the evidence of the authority he must wield, the very thought of which aroused her instinctual defiance. Since the moment they met, he’d been taking charge, giving orders, demanding deference.

Until a girl of perhaps twelve had dared to tease him, whereupon he had…smiled?

Prior to that moment, Erica had seen little sign that Tristan was ever anything other than a stick in the mud…with or without the mud. Lady Viviane, however, seemed to know another man entirely.

Had grief transformed him from whatever he had once been? She had watched it turn young people into old, stripping them of their vitality, just as a hard freeze sapped the life force from plants that had been green and blooming the day before. What had once been bright and full of promise became cold and brittle and black.

In the spring of the year, one made plans for the future. One did not think of death. This past spring, for instance, she had been planning her wedding to Henry Edgeworth. Then the frost had come, late and all the more cruel for being unexpected. Mostly to please her brother, Henry had joined the United Irishmen. Then he had been killed at the start of the rebellion, and she had grieved, both for his loss, and for her own.

Everything she had dared to imagine about her future had died with him. She was once more wholly dependent, trapped within the narrow cage society had constructed for unmarried young ladies.

Absently, her fingers tightened around the brush. Did she really imagine Tristan’s situation bore any resemblance to her own?

He had known loss, yes, and she did not doubt it pained him greatly. But that loss had also brought him unimaginable gain. Death had made him a duke. A title, an estate, power…and with them, freedom. Even grief stricken, who would turn down such a bequest?

She, meanwhile, was stuck. Stuck at Hawesdale Chase until the rain stopped. And after that… Stuck at home, most likely. Unless she accepted her sister’s offer to live with her and…do what? Become a maiden aunt to a passel of unruly lordlings?

The very thought sent the hairbrush skittering from her fingertips, across the marble top of the dressing table.

Henry had never minded her freckles. He had been willing to pluck and pot and press her botanical specimens. And once they were married, he had promised her, she’d have all the time in the world to fill the pages of her journal with notes and sketches and—

Her journal.

No. Not twice in two days.

Even she could not be that careless.

Well, yes…apparently she could.

She pushed to her feet, though she could not decide where to go. Tristan had put her journal in the saddlebag, probably with his own important papers. To the stable, then. Unless he’d brought it inside when they’d arrived? She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remember the last she’d seen of the dark leather satchel. Had he been carrying it in his hand? Had he slung it easily over one broad shoulder?

Her mind’s eye grazed over the memory of his form, lingering here and there for a moment longer than was strictly necessary.

When she opened her eyes, the mental image popped like a soap bubble. He was a duke. How ridiculous to imagine he did his own fetching and carrying. Likely, a servant had taken his bag to his chambers in the—

Finding herself on the threshold of her room, she paused. Mrs. Dean had said the family apartments were in the east wing, had she not? Was that to the right or to the left? Outdoors, growth patterns of plants or the position of the sun might have helped to guide her. In the windowless, candlelit corridor, she was all but lost.

Lifting her chin, Erica looked both directions, chose one, and set off in search of her journal.

While walking with Mrs. Dean, she had not noticed the inordinate number of doors leading off the corridor. Provided she found the east wing, how would she determine which was the correct door? Would the door to the duke’s suite look particularly…ducal?

At the end of the corridor, past yet more stairs, stood a set of tall double doors, of the sort that a pair of liveried footman might have been expected to guard. But no one was guarding them, and so it did not immediately occur to her that if she opened them and went through, she would find herself anywhere other than in another corridor.

The room she entered was so large and stately she assumed she must have made a wrong turn and found herself in the state rooms of the west wing. The walls were covered in ivory silk with gold damask, the windows framed by crimson velvet drapery held back by thick, tasseled ropes of gold silk. On two sides, the room overlooked the slopes and hollows of the wooded valley. She understood why Mrs. Dean considered it the finer view, though for herself, she preferred the dramatic ruggedness of the hillside.

Though the day was damp and cool, no fire had been lit in the marble fireplace. It might have been insufficient to heat the room in any case, though the firebox was so large she could have stepped into it without ducking her head. On either side of the fireplace stood a suit of armor, and on the wall above hung a tapestry depicting the Knights of the Round Table. Below it, nearer the mantel, had been mounted an ancient-looking sword, meant to suggest Excalibur, she supposed. It could not have been the real one, could it?

Warily, she took two steps closer. Thick Turkish carpets muffled the sound. Around the room stood groupings of furniture: plushly upholstered chairs on spindly legs, sofas with curved backs, tables of gilt and mirrored glass. A drawing room? A…a sitting room? She hadn’t the vocabulary for this sort of architecture. But who would sit here?

A duke, you dolt.

Erica flinched, though the voice spoke only inside her head.

All right, then. She was in the right place. But her journal could be…anywhere.

She forced herself to take a deep breath, hold it for a moment, and exhale slowly. Once, twice, thrice. Within four walls, she often felt panicky. Restless in small spaces. Overwhelmed in large ones. She tried to focus on the open sky beyond the windows, but dark clouds and lashing rain only increased her anxiety. Somewhere, her sister must be watching that same foreboding sky and fretting over what had become of her.

Forcing her gaze away from the storm, she swept her eyes once more over the rest of the room. Impossible to imagine her battered leather journal being allowed to mar any one of its gleaming surfaces. Ah, but behind her stood an antique secretary desk, placed near the door so a visitor would have to take no more than a few steps into the room to state their business to the one seated at it. She ran one hand over its polished edges. Just the sort of place a duke might keep his important papers…

“At the risk of repeating myself, Miss Burke, what in God’s name are you doing?”

She gripped a little piece of scrollwork so hard she feared it would snap off in her fingers. “Your Grace.” She closed her eyes, muttered a fierce, swift prayer, then jerked her chin a notch higher than its proper place to meet his gaze.

And promptly wished she hadn’t.

Even before the rebellion, she had not been the sort of woman to be taken in by a man in a red coat. A military uniform was all trickery, the sartorial equivalent of smoke and mirrors. The gold epaulets were designed to make his shoulders appear broader. The cutaway of the coat, to make his legs look longer.

Yet she had the distinct impression that his tailor had found no need to embellish on what nature had given Tristan Laurens.

Worst of all were those tight white knee breeches, which drew the eye to places a proper lady’s eye ought not to be drawn. And proved once and for all she was not a proper lady.

She squeezed her eyes shut once more. What was she thinking? He was a British soldier. That scarlet wool ought to make her think of nothing but the blood of thousands of her countrymen, shed in a futile bid for freedom.

“Miss Burke?”

She opened her eyes, lifting them only enough to focus on his high-shine black boots. “I beg your pardon. I—I was looking for… I’ll just go—”

The boots took two deliberate steps toward her, one for each word. “Go where?”

Why on earth had she imagined she would find her journal in his private chambers? “To—to look elsewhere?” She hated that note of doubt in her own voice. The satchel had contained important papers, and a duke surely had a study or an office or some other room where the business of the estate was conducted. But she would just as surely get lost trying to find it. Who knew which wing it might be in?

“I think not.”

Her chin jerked up again, seemingly of its own accord. “I beg your pardon?”

“I would not wish to impede your search, Miss Burke. Whatever it is you may be seeking.” Something, not quite humor, glimmered in his eyes, though it did not displace their usual dark intensity. “But I fear you are in some distress.” Now his gaze darted over her before coming to rest on some piece of furniture behind her. Was that a flush of color across his cheeks? “Hence, I presume, your…dishabille.”

Oh, no. She’d been distracted. But she couldn’t possibly have rushed from her room without…

As she clutched her arms instinctively across her chest, she felt the sides of the dressing gown gaping open. The braided silk cord designed to hold the garment closed had worked its way loose. She was standing in the private quarters of a gentleman with her shift on display. Briefly, she considered diving into one of the suits of armor to hide.

And never coming out.

Instead, he turned away, back toward the door through which he’d silently entered. “One moment, please.” He was gone long enough for her to tighten the sash of her dressing gown, but not long enough for her to think of escaping. When he returned he held her journal in his hands. “Could this be what you’re looking for? I intended to ask one of the servants to return it to your room.”

She hardly heard him. Yesterday’s encounter in the inn was replaying in her mind. Though Tristan readily extended the book to her, he maintained his grip for a moment longer than necessary, after her own fingers had clasped the cover. Her panic must have been visible on her face, for he said, a little defensively, “You may rest assured I am not in the habit of reading young ladies’ secret diaries.”

“It’s not a—”

Well, it was a diary, if by diary one meant a book containing private thoughts not meant to be shared. More accurately, though, it was not only a diary. She’d begun it to keep a scientific record. On occasion, however, other things found their way into the journal, with the result that its pages were a cryptic jumble of lists, memoranda, notes, and illustrations. She’d been forced to create her own system—if system it could be called—to keep track of it all. If anyone ever did decide to look into the book, she took some solace in the idea that no one else would be able to make heads nor tails of it.

“It contains the botanical observations I’ve made over the last few months,” she said, clutching the journal in one hand and the opening of the dressing gown with the other.

“Botany, eh?” There was surprise in his voice. It might have been matched in his expression, but she would never know. She could not bring herself to meet his eye. “Following in your father’s footsteps?”

Papa was a dabbler, a dilettante. She was serious. A scientist. Still, she hesitated only a moment. “Yes.”

“I’m sure he is gratified by your interest.”

Gratified? Perhaps. She wanted to make him proud. Her given name might belong to a common shrub, but she intended someday to pin her surname on something extraordinary.

Of course, a botanical discovery was never easy to make. An unmarried young lady who wasn’t even allowed to walk through a manicured park without a chaperone might find it impossible.

“Though I suspect he would advise you to take better care of your notes,” he added.

She folded the journal against her breast like a shield. But the words had already found their mark. What must it be like to be so blessedly sure of one’s self? “You’re right, of course. I shall endeavor to do better.” She curled her fingers tighter around the book’s cover, feeling her fingernails dig into the soft leather. If it were not so precious to her, she might have lobbed it at his head. Instead, she turned toward the double doors, which still stood open behind her, intending to take her leave.

A youthfully pretty woman, clad all in black, stood on the threshold. Under ordinary circumstances, Erica might have taken her for Tristan’s elder sister. But based on what he had revealed about his family, this elegant woman of not quite middle age must be his stepmother, the duchess.

Gathering her wits, her courage, and the trailing skirt of her dressing gown, Erica sank into a deep curtsy, from which she did not rise until the duchess said, “You must be Miss Burke.”

If she did not speak, Tristan would speak for her. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Mrs. Dean told me of your arrival. How frightened you must have been to discover yourself stranded.” The Duchess of Raynham was one of those rare women whose spark was not dimmed by the unrelieved black of mourning. Instead, the black crape set off her porcelain skin and fair hair. She studied Erica with lively blue eyes. “I’ve sent my maid to your room with some necessary items I hope will fit.” There was amusement in her gaze, but no judgment, as she took in Erica’s current state of undress. “I know you must be exhausted and terribly worried about your sister, but if you’ll join us for dinner this evening, we shall try to supply a few hours’ diversion, won’t we?” Her eyes flashed to her stepson for confirmation.

Dinner? With the duke? Erica swallowed hard. Frankly, she’d rather have been left to starve in the cottage.

Nonetheless, she forced herself to answer in the affirmative. Because the duchess seemed to expect it. As she also seemed to understand that being alone might be worse. “Thank you, ma’am,” she said, risking another, shallower, curtsy. “You are too kind.” Despite her caution, the dressing gown slid off one shoulder, baring her shift to view.

Behind her, Tristan made a gruff noise in his throat. Disapproval, whether at the invitation or her acceptance of it, she was not sure.

Without waiting to be dismissed, without even begging the duchess’ pardon, she hurried through the door, head bowed, as if charging back into the storm, praying she would be able to find the shelter of her room.