Chapter 3
“ Don’t tell me where he isn’t !” Edward thundered, slamming his fists on his desk. “Tell me where he is !”
The governess, Mrs. Trench, was a woman of middle years, perhaps several years short of forty. She was rather stocky and wide about the waist, with a pleasant round face and prematurely graying brown hair knotted back in a simple bun. Nothing ever seemed to rattle her or upset her, least of all Edward’s outbursts. She barely even blinked.
“He opened the schoolroom window and climbed out,” she responded smoothly. “I was downstairs, fetching the tea tray, as usual, so I daresay he had been gone at least ten minutes by the time I returned. I could not possibly say where he had gone, only that he was not in the house. The servants and I have searched thoroughly. We ought to expand our search to the grounds, Your Grace.”
Edward threw himself back into his seat, rubbing his hand over his face. He was too tired for this. Why couldn’t Alex stay out of trouble just for a while? Why must everything be so difficult?
At least his neighbors—who were thankfully few and had gotten the hint that he did not like unexpected guests, or any guests at all, and would not send him invitations—had finally stopped telling him that Alex’s problems would cease if he could only have a mother.
“I’ll round up some of the gardeners and groundsmen to search for him,” offered Peter, the third occupant of the room.
Peter Tinn was around thirty-five years of age, tall and rather too slim, with a head full of duckling-fluff hair and a surprisingly strong and full brown beard. He was an excellent steward, with a tendency towards timidity.
Frankly, Edward was not sure how he hadn’t managed to drive off his oldest—and only—friend.
Was it pathetic for a gentleman to admit that his closest friend was his steward? Probably.
“Mrs. Trench can do that, Peter,” Edward answered. “I want a word with you.”
Mrs. Trench inclined her head and left the room silently, closing the door after her. Peter turned to watch her go.
“It’s not Jemimah’s fault,” he said, as soon as the door closed. “Master Alexander was in a strange mood all day, and she only turned her back for a handful of minutes, and?—”
“Yes, Peter, I know. I don’t blame Mrs. Trench. I’m fairly sure you shouldn’t call her Jemimah , by the way.”
Peter reddened. “She did say that I could, Your Grace.”
“Did she? Fine, not my business. But really, I’m at my wits’ end with Alex, Pete. Nothing I do works. He hates me.”
Peter bit his lip. “You’re too hard on yourself, Your Grace. And on him, perhaps.”
Edward sighed, raking a hand through his hair. It was a little too long for fashionable society—not that he cared about fashionable society—and lately, he had started discovering the occasional strand of silver hair amongst the black.
I am not doing a good job of keeping my promise.
As always, that thought—the daily reminder of how deeply he had failed Jane—dropped him into a stark black mood.
“I’ll join the search outside,” Edward said, leaping to his feet so suddenly that he made poor Peter jump. “I would like you to make arrangements to have the schoolroom moved to one of the higher floors. I won’t have my son jumping out in the middle of his lessons. Once he goes to Eton, he won’t be able to pull that nonsense.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Where are you going to search?”
“I don’t know,” Edward muttered.
“Should I inform the Dowager Duchess?”
“No!” Edward answered, a little too quickly.
Peter blinked, not entirely surprised.
Edward sighed, glancing away. “There is no sense in bothering my stepmother. She’s retired to the dower house for the night. I don’t want her disturbed. This is not her concern.”
Peter scratched his temple. “Are you sure that she will see it that way, Your Grace?”
Edward didn’t bother to reply. He picked up a waxed jacket from his coat hook by the door, pulled it on, and hurried out into the dark hallways.
The country house was very old, of course, and decorated in a style several decades out of fashion. Occasionally, his stepmother would make noises about changing some things, but he never seemed to get around to it. Edward couldn’t quite say what had kept him from making the house look more like his own, but it probably had something to do with his father’s mocking, amused voice in the back of his head.
“You can’t possibly think that all of this is yours, can you, Edward?”
The wave of cold air when he stepped outside washed away the thoughts, jerking him out of his reverie. It was late afternoon, and darkness was already crowding in, filling the garden with gloom and shadows. As it often did, the mist had rolled in from the fields, a greenish-white carpet creeping through the grounds. He could see distant, bobbing lanterns and a few candles carried by various servants combing the gardens. They were all calling for Alex, all sounding faintly concerned.
Alex was popular with the servants. He was a precocious boy, according to Mrs. Trench, with a thirst for knowledge and a maturity beyond his years.
Perhaps if the boy were less mature, less sensitive , he wouldn’t take to running off every time his father spoke sharply to him.
My father said things a thousand times worse to me . And I never ran off. I wouldn’t have dared.
On second thought, perhaps moving the schoolroom up a few floors was a bad idea. It might simply add a few layers of danger to Alex’s future escapes.
Sighing, Edward snatched up a lantern and strode around the side of the house, towards the hills and distant treeline. Alex often liked to take walks up there—accompanied by his trusty governess, of course. He had stopped asking Edward to walk with him.
That should have been good news—Edward was always too busy to come, anyway—but for some reason, not being asked sent a pang through his chest.
I’m trying, Jane.
Now, where was that part of the grounds that Alex raved about? Some ugly, little building that had been there for decades, one that he kept sketching. Sketching!
That was something Edward was never permitted to do. Gentlemen, his father had said more than once, enjoyed hunting, cards, whiskey, and not much else. Learning to dance was a necessary evil, but never to be enjoyed or practiced more than absolutely necessary. Art, painting, and music were out of the question, as was reading novels.
Edward wondered what his father would think of his grandson, who was already proficient with watercolors, loved to dance, and was learning the pianoforte. He would be ashamed, of course.
Am I ashamed?
Edward prayed and prayed that the answer would be no.
The ground sloped sharply up towards the folly, silhouetted high on the hill and half-buried in trees. After the heavy rain they’d had that day, the ground was slippery and muddy. Edward lost his footing more than once.
Not for the first time, he felt a prickle of fear.
Where has Alex gone? He’s never been gone for so long before. He could have slid down somewhere and broken his neck. He could have gotten lost. With the rain, the rivers would have swelled. If he got swept away…
Edward cut off that thought, panic swelling inside him. He imagined fishing Alex’s bloated, unblinking corpse out of the river in a week, looking down at his only son and knowing that everything was his fault. Knowing that his son was dead and nothing would bring him back. No chance to apologize. No hopes of ever seeing eye to eye in the future.
Edward cupped a hand around his mouth and bellowed into the growing gloom.
“Alexander! Alex! Where are you?”
A rustling came from further up the hill. He squinted, shading his eyes.
“Here, Papa!”
Edward nearly dropped the lantern. He ran up the slope, losing his footing and finding it necessary to slap a hand on the ground to steady himself.
When he was about halfway up, he saw them.
Them being his son, hand in hand with a strange, almost ghostly woman. They were picking their way down the hill, which was steep and slippery enough to make for very hard going.
Alex beamed, releasing the woman’s hand and stumbling across the hill towards his father.
Edward could have wept. He didn’t, of course, because gentlemen did not do that, either. Instead, he set the lantern firmly down on a nearby rock and grabbed Alex’s shoulders with both hands.
“What were you thinking of?” he snapped. “The entire household is out looking for you! Have you any idea of the worry you have put us all through?”
The smile faded from Alex’s face. He jerked his shoulders out of his father’s grip.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I should have left a note for Mrs. Trench.”
“You should not have snuck out at all. Come, we must return at once.” Edward straightened up, picking up the lantern again, and extended his hand towards his son.
Alex didn’t take it. Instead, he turned and looked at the woman.
“What about my new friend, Papa?”
Edward looked properly at the woman for the first time. She was not, upon closer inspection, a ghost. She was younger than he’d imagined, twenty-one or twenty-two, and was in quite a shocking state. Her hair hung loose and was wet and matted. Her ice-blue gown was so filthy that he could barely tell that it was blue at all. The skirt was torn in several places, and she appeared to have lain on her back in the mud for some time, judging by the back of her dress.
But even the grime and untidiness did not quite hide how pretty she was. She had a smooth, pale, oval face, with strong eyebrows, thick dark hair, and a pair of very large, vivid green eyes. A rare color, in fact. She was looking at him with an intense, unwavering expression.
“Your friend?” he echoed. “I think not.”
He turned to walk away, but Alex tugged at his sleeve. “Papa, I told her she should stay the night.”
Edward blinked down at his son. “I beg your pardon?”
Alex flushed. “She’s gotten lost, and she’s very wet and cold. She was kind to me and said she would walk me home. I said she could stay with us.”
“She offered to walk you home because she wanted a bed for the night, you little fool. She didn’t offer out of the kindness of her heart. Now, come along. We?—”
“He’s not a fool,” the woman interrupted. He was a little surprised to hear a clear, genteel accent come out of her mouth, the sort that was produced by expensive finishing schools. “You shouldn’t talk to your son that way.”
“What business is it of yours how I talk to my son?” Edward shot back. “What business do you have in laying your hands on him?”
“Laying my hands on… Oh, you are ridiculous! I came across a sad boy all alone, and then I took him back to his family. He’s a fine, clever boy, and very kind indeed. I can only assume he takes after his mother.”
That hurt. Edward flinched back, rocking on his heels, but regained his composure quickly. Alex said nothing.
“Yes, well, that’s really no concern of yours. Good day.” He turned to go, snatching Alex’s hand, but the woman spoke again.
“You can’t talk to me like that,” she snapped, stomping around to face him. “I’m a lady.”
He stared down at her. She certainly spoke like a lady, but what lady would wander the countryside alone, in such a state? She barely came up to his shoulders, but that did nothing to dampen the absolute ferocity in her gaze as she glared up at him, muddy hands on her muddy hips.
“You don’t look like a lady,” he heard himself say.
She barked out a mirthless laugh. “Oh, that’s how it is, eh? We’re going by looks alone? Well, in that case, you are certainly not a gentleman, judging by the way you have treated me. I don’t think I’ve ever met a ruder man.”
“Well then, you haven’t met many men at all, have you?” he snarled.
He made to step around her and head down the hill, but she neatly side-stepped and blocked his path once again.
“Your poor son was crying his heart out over the way you had treated him,” she said, jabbing a finger towards his chest.
She didn’t touch him, but Edward felt his irritation soar as if she had.
“That is between my son and me. You have no business intervening.”
“That is exactly the kind of attitude that ought to be left in the past. Modern men and women do not accept it. I read all sorts of progressive journals, you know,” the woman added, tilting up her chin.
Edward was suddenly aware of a headache throbbing behind his eyes. It didn’t help that he was suddenly remembering Jane’s collection of tomes on the subjects of morality, philosophy, and other various learned essays that he’d never bothered to read before she died.
He had kept the books and essays, of course. Some of them were quite thought-provoking, in fact.
“If you are a lady, then you had better get yourself home,” Edward said at last, the heat gone out of his voice.
He was just tired now and wanted to get back home and talk things over with Alex. If Alex would talk to him, of course.
“It’s dark, and the rain is only going to get worse. You already look a state, but I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that.”
He stepped around her again, and once again, she blocked his path.
“Look,” Edward said, the anger coming back. “I am going to push you down this hill if you don’t get out of my way.”
Her eyes narrowed. “No, I don’t think you will.”
His shoulders sagged.
It was true. He had no intention of assaulting any woman, even one that was clearly mad, but he’d hoped that the threat alone would work.
“What do you want?” he managed, at last.
“What is your name, Sir?”
He hadn’t expected that.
Edward cleared his throat. “It is not Sir . It is Your Grace .”
She raised her eyebrows, unimpressed. “You’re a duke, then. The Duke of where?”
“Here,” he responded shortly.
Daphne fought not to roll her eyes. “And where is here , exactly?”
He pressed his lips together. “Thornbridge.”
She flinched back a little. The name was familiar. “You are the Duke of Thornbridge?”
“I am,” he confirmed. “And this errant, little wretch is my only son, so you’ll forgive me if I let my worry for him overwhelm my manners. As I said earlier, you ought to get home and out of those wet things.”
A sudden and rather vivid image of him peeling her out of those wet things flashed through his mind, much to his horror. He gave himself a little shake—it was just because she was young and pretty, and he’d been alone for far too long—and made to move past her.
He had actually succeeded in getting past her, towing Alex along behind him, when she spoke again.
“Your Grace, wait!”