All in all, Summers Glade, at least on the inside of it, certainly wasn’t what Duncan had been expecting from an old English marquis, and certainly not after the dour look of the outside. Staid, unpretentious, heavy pieces had been his guess for what Neville would surround himself with, not the frivolous decor of the previous century.
But since Neville had lived in the last century, it wasn’t all that surprising, after a bit of thought, that he might prefer the gaily carved and painted look of it that he had no doubt been raised with. Duncan would not be a bit surprised now if his grandfather showed up in one of those silly, puffy old white wigs, which had been the rage of the day when such furnishings had been in high style.
It took four servants—the haughty butler, who turned him over to a downstairs maid, who then turned him over to an upstairs maid, and finally the no-nonsense housekeeper—to show Duncan to his room in the upper regions. He’d almost been laughing by the time the housekeeper arrived to welcome him, that it had taken so many people to get him upstairs, when any one of them could have just pointed the way. But that was by no means the end of the procession.
A new maid showed up to light the fire in his room. Then another showed up carrying hot water and towels. Yet another followed on her heels with a large platter of morning-type refreshments, biscuits, sausages, and a few sweet pasties, with small pots of both hot tea and chocolate. Not ten minutes after that one left, yet another young miss arrived to ask if there was anything else he might be needing.
And lastly, Willis arrived.
Willis was a thin little man of middle years on the high side of middle, who proudly proclaimed he’d been chosen to be Duncan’s valet. He had brown hair, what little hadn’t receded on him, and brown eyes, his expression what one might call true haughtiness—and here Duncan had thought he’d seen the most haughty one could get in the Glade’s butler, but Willis managed to appear even more proud and lofty.
Duncan wasn’t so ignorant that he didn’t know what a valet was for. He was just so surprised that one was in his room expecting to do for him, that Willis was already unpacking his traveling valise—which he’d had to fight with a footman to bring upstairs himself—before Duncan had a chance to tell him he wasn’t needed.
And then he heard, “A skirt, m’lord?”
“That’s a kilt, y’dafty mon!” Duncan fairly roared over the insult, his cheeks turning hot with color.
Willis was undisturbed by his tone, merely tsked as he moved to put the kilt away in the bureau. Duncan stared at him aghast. The insult had been bad enough, but for the little man to ignore his fury over it?
Tight lipped, Duncan ordered, “Get oout.”
That did get Willis’s full attention, but he merely said, “M’lord?”
To the perplexed look he was getting, Duncan explained, “I’ve ne’er needed a valet in m’life, and I’ll no‘ be needing one now.”
But instead of getting huffy and leaving, Willis simply tsked again and said, “It’s no fault of your own where you were raised, but you’re in England now and will want to do things properly, I’m sure.”
“Will I now?” Duncan replied ominously, his temper on the rise again.
“Of course you will, and of course, you do need me. No gentleman of any consequence would even think of dressing himself.”
“I’m no‘ a gentlemon, no’ a lord, and I’ll be bluidy well dressing myself. Now be gone, mon, afore I have tae toss you oout.”
At that, Willis finally took him seriously and looked somewhat panicked. “You wouldn’t really dismiss me, would you? It will reflect horribly on me.”
“Just because I dinna need you?”
“But no one will believe that,” Willis assured him. “No, this will be my fault alone, and prevent me from ever aspiring to such a prestigious position again. I will be quite ruined, m’lord, if I’m sent back to London.”
Duncan would swear the man’s lower lip just quivered. He sighed. He wasn’t a mean man, just one set in his own ways. Yet he had no desire to be responsible for someone’s being “quite ruined.” Bedamned, he didn’t like compromising.
“Verra well, you can see tae the pressing and cleaning o‘ what’s tae be worn, but I’ll be doing the dressing, is that clear?”
“Thank you, m’lord,” Willis said, returning to his haughty and gratingly condescending tone. “And may I summon the marquis’s tailor for some fittings, or do you have more trunks that will soon be arriving?”
Duncan just stared at the man. Give an Englishman an inch . . .
Chapter Nine
Sabrina didn’t see it as such a tragedy, the revelation of her family history. But then the London ton was so funny, in their reaction to it, that she was more amused than not. Where people had previously looked at her with the mere curiosity reserved for any newcomer on the scene, they now gave her looks that said clearly, You’re still alive? But not for long, I’ll warrant. One silly lady had even screamed, thinking her a ghost. Sabrina could just imagine how distorted the rumors had been before they reached the screamer’s ears.
Her prospects of finding a husband in London were now quite done in, of course. After all, what gentleman marrying to get himself an heir, and that was why a good many of them married, would want a wife who might not live long enough to produce that heir? Both her aunts were still living many years after the tragedies, obviously breaking the chain, but did anyone take that into account? No, that was definitely overlooked by the sophisticated London ton.
It did no good, really, to tell anyone the truth about her family. They would believe what they wanted to believe, and didn’t the evidence support their belief? Hardly, but then the truth didn’t make such juicy gossip. Much more interesting to insist that it must run in the family, the inclination to end one’s life before it was ready to be ended.
Unfortunately, Sabrina’s great-grandfather Richard had done just that, and his flighty wife, unable to bear up under the tragedy of it, had followed suit. That might have been the end of it, though. Their surviving daughter, Lucinda, after all, was already married at the time to William Lambert, an earl of strong constitution, and they already had two daughters themselves in Hilary and Alice. Sabrina’s father, John, had yet to be born, which was why the old duke’s title went to another distant branch of the family whom the Lamberts had never even met.
No one, in the family at least, was quite sure whether Lucinda jumped from that upstairs balcony or accidently fell off. Her health had declined somewhat after she bore William a son, and she’d been blue-deviled for months after John’s birth, so it was quite possible that she had taken the same route as her parents. But whether she did or not, no one else doubted for a minute that she did, thus the scandal resurfaced and stayed around long enough to ruin Hilary and Alice’s chance of a successful London Season.
It should have ended there. After all, there was new blood in the family now from the earl’s side. And the talk of “bad blood” did die down by the time John married Elizabeth, and Sabrina came along from that union.
But then her parents had the misfortune to consume some tainted food and they both died of it before the doctor arrived. Even the dog died, having been given the scraps. And two of the kitchen maids, having had only a small taste of it, had been severely cramped as well. The doctor himself claimed it had been bad food. But it didn’t take long for the rumor to start that they had taken poison—deliberately.
Hilary and Alice knew better. Their brother and his wife had loved each other and were very happy. Their deaths, at least, were truly accidental. But once again, no one else would believe that.
Her aunts, not surprisingly, were devastated that the scandal was running wild once again, all these years later, but then they’d had such high hopes for Sabrina, which were now quite dashed. They couldn’t imagine who had been mean and spiteful enough to reintroduce that old scandal to the London gossip mills, not that it would make any difference to know who did. The damage was done. And because of it, there
was really no point in staying any longer in London.
Sabrina was actually glad to be going home. London, she had found, with all its bustle and glitter, just didn’t suit her at all. It was much too crowded, mostly dirty, the air more often than not thick with soot and smoke. She sorely missed the pristine cleanliness of a walk in the snow-covered countryside, and the earthy scents of animals and foliage in warmer months, rather than people and garbage.
She was glad that she had attended at least one ball, since she wasn’t likely to ever find another to attend at home, and a few other parties before the gossip about her ran rampant. She at least knew what it was like now, London. Better to know than to always wonder, so the trip wasn’t a complete waste of time in her mind.
And unlike her aunts, she wasn’t worried that she would probably never marry now. On the contrary, she figured she would find a nice man someday, one intelligent enough to see through the rumors to the truth. So a few of her ancestors had actually killed themselves. That hardly meant that her entire family was fated to do the same. And if she didn’t find anyone, well, that would be no great tragedy either, and her aunts were proof of that, too.
Ironically, their hosts, the Reids, found it necessary to travel to Yorkshire as well, since they had received notice to present themselves at Summers Glade to meet Neville Thackeray’s grandson, who would soon be arriving there himself. Quite naturally, it was suggested that they all travel together. This was Lady Mary’s idea. Her daughter, Ophelia, though, went beyond what could be considered good form in beseeching the Lamberts to join them at Summers Glade as well.
Alice and Hilary no doubt would have declined if they hadn’t been so despondent over why they were leaving London, and not thinking clearly. They didn’t even like the marquis, after all. But Ophelia admitted that she’d already invited many of her other friends to come to Summers Glade, and it was going to be quite the festive country gathering.
Sabrina’s aunts were possibly seeing this as one last chance for Sabrina to catch some young gentleman’s eye, so they had readily agreed. They were also anticipating the many parties that Ophelia would no doubt be having at the Glade after she was wed, which would be even more exposure for their niece. The very thought had cheered them up some small bit, so Sabrina didn’t have the heart to object herself, though she at least saw the impropriety of descending on the Marquis of Birmingdale without his personal invitation.
Nor was Sabrina ignorant of Ophelia’s real motives in inviting them and a slew of other people to Summers Glade, which were twofold. She had been furious, and didn’t mind who knew it, that she was being dragged away from the London Season, and this was her silly way of bringing the “Season” to her. More to the point, though, she apparently felt she needed reinforcements to bolster her courage, but then she’d made it quite clear that she was terrified of the Highland barbarian whom her parents were forcing her to marry.
Though Sabrina was still disgusted over how Ophelia was going about getting rid of her fiancé, she did sympathize somewhat. It was so antiquated, after all, in this day and age, to be engaged to marry someone you’d never clapped eyes on. Her fear was understandable.
Sabrina might have sympathized even more if Ophelia had expressed a desire to marry for love instead, but that, apparently, wasn’t on her list of priorities at all. She had merely been too impatient to wait and see if the marquis’s grandson might suit her well enough, and besides, she aspired to a grander title than his. That there weren’t a great many young dukes running around who would fit the bill of having a grander title was beside the point. She was sure she could find one, or a prince, even a king if she set her mind to it. She did think that highly of herself.
It was quite an embarrassing moment, though, facing the Glade’s stern-faced butler, who had been expecting no more than three visitors but was met with eight instead—two of Ophelia’s admirers had joined them on the road—and more still to come. Ophelia handled that in her typical way, however, dismissing the man as a menial.
“If I must stay here,” she told him, “so must my friends. I am rarely without visitors, so you will just have to get used to it.”
Fortunately for Ophelia, her parents were still outside and hadn’t heard that haughty remark, or she would probably have got a dressing down for it. The butler’s look said clearly that the marquis would hear of it, though. Ophelia no doubt hoped so. She did not want the marquis to like her. When either he or his grandson could end the unwanted engagement, she was determined to be unpleasant to both to speed up that ending.
At least Sabrina and her aunts wouldn’t have far to travel if the worst happened and the marquis kicked them all out. Their own house, closer to the nearby small town of Oxbow, was only twenty minutes away, so it would be no hindrance to leave, even at night. They would just have to wait and see whether Lord Neville would be of a mind to pamper his soon-to-be grand-daughter-in-law.
Chapter Ten
Unaware of the arriving London guests, Duncan and his grandfather were at that moment upstairs meeting for the first time themselves. Duncan had insisted on waiting in Neville’s sitting room for him, while Neville’s valet had refused to wake him any sooner than the marquis’s customary hour of arising. So Duncan had waited, nearly two hours, for the old man to bestir himself and make an appearance.
But he had finally done that, and the valet, looking red-faced on his way out, had obviously gotten a scolding for not waking Neville sooner. Not that Duncan had minded the wait, which had given him time to examine some of the possessions that Neville must consider of importance, for them to be in his personal sitting room.
The strange African artifacts on one wall suggested that Neville must have visited that continent at some point in his life, or wished he had. Another corner of the room was filled with Chinese art; around the mantel were things Egyptian. Either Neville liked to travel or he was a collector of unusual art.
The furnishings, however, were in the same French flavor prevalent throughout the house. The desk was so dainty looking, Duncan would be afraid to use it himself, concerned that the slightest bit of weight from an elbow might send it crumbling to the floor. On it were two miniature portraits, one of which he recognized as his mother when she was a young woman, undoubtedly painted before she’d left home to marry Donald. The other was of a child—with bright red hair.
The second picture caused Duncan to pause and simply stare at it. It could have been himself, he supposed, though he certainly had no recollection of anyone ever being around him who could have painted it. It wasn’t a pose, was a male child in play outdoors, oblivious to anyone who might have been watching him. And Duncan’s hair had been that bright when he’d been a child, though it was nowhere near that color now, had darkened considerably as he’d aged. He saw no resemblance, though, really, other than the hair, but that could be the fault of the artist—and he was running out of reasons why it might not be his portrait, when he knew deep down that it was.
He just couldn’t figure out why Neville would have it, or want it, when he’d never, not once in Duncan’s entire life, tried to see him or even contact him. He’d written to Archie, but never to his only grandson, which spoke eloquently, as far as Duncan was concerned, about how Neville felt about him. He was a promised possession, and Neville probably saw him no differently from one of his art objects, to be prized and of value, but there was no sentimentality involved.
Now, seeing each other for the first time— Neville had paused in the doorway that connected to his bedroom and moved no further—they each simply stared, each surprised that the other was not what he’d been expecting.
Neville had a full head of hair, albeit every bit of it a silvery white, and cut just below the ear in the current style. And he had aged—gracefully. There was no doubting that he was far up there in years, yet he sported very few wrinkles, and his eyes were sharply alert. With the silver goatee he wore, he had a very distinguished if Continental look, his slimness, or what could be consi
dered frailty in his case, and his lack of height adding to it. His posture was very erect, though. In fact, this was not a man near his deathbed, as Henry had implied. Far from it. Neville looked in perfect health.
“You’re bigger . . . than I expected,” was the first thing Neville said.
In the same vein, Duncan replied, “You’re no‘ as old as I was expecting—nor as sickly.”
The words broke the surprised silence. Neville entered the room, his stride brisk, though he did sigh as he took the chair behind his small desk.
Duncan, finding no chair in the room that looked like it wouldn’t shatter if he even glanced at it, moved to stand in front of the fireplace. A bad choice, he quickly found, since the fire had been burning strongly before he even arrived, and still was, making the room uncomfortably warm, and near the fireplace, intolerably hot.
He moved to one of the windows instead and started to open it—all three in the room were closed tight.
“Please don’t,” Neville stopped him, and after a questioning glance from Duncan, added in a somewhat embarrassed tone, “I have been cautioned against drafts. My doctors seem to think my lungs won’t withstand another bout with congestion. Regrettably, that means the rooms I frequent are kept unduly warm.”
“So you have been sick then?”
“I spent the last entire winter in bed. I have fared better this year.”
Duncan nodded. It had been said matter-of-factly. Neville wasn’t bemoaning the fact, merely relating it. Duncan stayed near the window, where it was at least a little cooler, but not cool enough after standing next to the fire. Sweating now, he shrugged out of his jacket.
“I suppose you get that height from your father—and the hair,” Neville remarked, watching him.
“I’ve your eyes, I’m told.”