Chapter Sixteen
Harbury tilted his head, unsure he had properly heard his housekeeper. “Are you certain the duchess said she wanted Lady Pennington to wait in the parlor?”
“Quite,” Mrs. Pratt replied. “As Miss Clapham and Mrs. Townsend have just come from the church, the duchess felt they might soothe the worst of Lady Pennington’s fears and answer any questions while you prepare to speak with Mr. Anderson.”
“I see,” he said, though the details remained murky.
As far as he could understand, his wife expected him to confront his father’s man, relieve Anderson of the tinderbox he’d threatened to use on St. Margaret’s, order the steward to resign his post, and then deliver the man into the safekeeping of his daughter.
How he was going to accomplish these miracles while Anderson remained in a disordered state, believing him to be an imposter, he’d no idea.
His wife, on the other hand, appeared to have a plan.
Despite his present reservation, her counsel had not led him astray yet. The least he could do was offer her the benefit of the doubt. If she had a plan, he knew her well enough to understand she would have taken everyone’s wellbeing into consideration, especially his own.
Even when upset—no, furious—with him.
So, he acceded to Cassandra’s wishes and extended her invitation to Vivianne, who warily accepted.
“Lady Pennington,” Harbury said as he ushered her into the parlor, “these two ladies, whom you were so good as to point out to me when they arrived, have come to let us know your father has been found and is currently with Miss Clapham’s father at St. Margaret’s.”
Yes—his steady gaze implied—the riff-raff you complained about came to offer their aid.
“May I introduce them?”
“We are, I believe, already acquainted.” Lady Pennington replied, with heightened color. “Mrs. Townsend.” She nodded. “Miss Clapham. Thank you for bringing such welcome tidings. I cannot tell you how relieved I am.”
“I will return shortly,” he told them all, before leaving the room.
He hastened up the stairs and then opened the door to his chamber.
“Your Grace.” Marsden inclined his head.
Harbury’s gaze moved between his wife, his valet, and the assortment of clothes and fripperies covering both his dresser—a powdered wig, a pair of silk breeches in pink, a long coat with gold trim, and an elaborate waistcoat.
He then focused on his father’s pocket watch, which he usually kept in the very back of his top drawer.
“What’s all this?” he asked.
“Marsden and I have been discussing what should be done,” his wife replied.
His valet nodded in agreement.
“Mr. Anderson has been demanding to see your father,” Cassandra continued, “we both feel, given Mr. Anderson’s state, how you present yourself to him could make a great deal of difference.”
He glanced back to the clothes. The collection of not-so-subtle symbols of wealth, of authority left him slightly nauseous. They conjured vivid memories. Memories of his father, barking orders from the table’s head, scowling down at his disappointing son.
He swallowed. “You want to dress me up as my father.”
“If you appear in a manner…more familiar to Anderson,” Marsden gently suggested, “he will be more likely to calmly accept direction.”
Anderson had always enjoyed the duke’s confidence, but never his affection. He doubted his father would have put himself to this much trouble on behalf of anyone he employed.
In the same situation, his father would have been more likely to have disparaged the subservient class’s weak minds before ordering Anderson escorted off the estate without even speaking to the man at all.
And his father would have been dead wrong.
Not, he realized, for the first time.
His wife’s idea, though unusual and downright disagreeable, had merit.
In the guise of his father, he could not only persuade the steward with less effort, but also put the man’s mind at ease. If the ruse worked, Anderson would feel free to relinquish his post while maintaining his employer’s admiration and goodwill.
Moreover, Anderson—and Vivianne—would be out of their lives for good.
“I’ve also asked for the coach to be readied,” Cassandra explained. “Four footmen are to join you, just in case Mr. Anderson cannot be convinced.”
“You’re a treasure, Cassie. I couldn’t have asked for a better duchess.”
“I only want what we all want—Mr. Anderson’s safe return.” Her gaze dropped to his collar, a collar still damp with her tears. “People are waiting on you, depending on you.”
Is that all you want? His unasked question lodged in his throat. “Will you come with me?”
“No.” She shook her head. “My presence could only confuse Anderson.”
“I hate that I must do this. I hate that I must leave you.”
“This will be hard, I know.” Briefly—too briefly—she touched his shoulder.
For a time, he would become his father. To do so, however, would mean more than just donning old clothes. To be convincing, he would also have to adopt an air he’d never been able to master. An air that, since he’d embraced his softer side, had since become abhorrent to him.
Perhaps it was better she was not there when he did so. “You said you’d be here when I returned,” he reminded. “Does that promise stand?”
She nodded, unable to meet his gaze. “Take care.”
“I will,” he assured.
She made her way back to her bedchamber and gently closed the door behind her.
“Well,” he turned to Marsden. “Do your worst.”
Piece by piece, he donned his father’s clothes. When Marsden had finished, Harbury looked into the mirror, and an altogether different man gazed back.
He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the wig’s warmth, the grayish curls brushing across his shoulder blades, the brocade jacket’s weight, the silk breeches’ slide across his thighs encouraged a sense of noble authority, a license to do as he pleased.
But doing only as he pleased, without consideration of how his actions affected others, was not how he wanted to live.
Harshly wielded power worked by invoking fear. His father had known exactly how to manipulate that sword. He, on the other hand, would have to approximate.
A leader strove to better conditions for all, but fear didn’t bring out the best in people. Not like patience, inquiry, and mutually assured commitment.
Secure in the knowledge who he was on the inside could not be changed by how he was dressed, he faced his unfamiliar, distasteful reflection without shrinking. What he was about to do was not a resurrection, but a kindness. A kindness his father would never have been capable of performing.
A kindness Harbury might not have been willing to perform, had he not been made wiser by the pain of one love lost and the miracle of another, truer love found.
A love that, when this was over, he desperately hoped he could save.
He kept that hope burning in his heart as he applied himself to his mission.
A short while later, he followed Lady Pennington’s carriage to the church.
The ladies went inside first, and the footmen positioned themselves, two outside of the front entrance, two in the back.
When Mrs. Townsend gave the signal, Harbury strode into the church with a lifted gaze.
He spotted Anderson, who was standing at the base of his father’s monument, clutching the flint and powder to his chest. The Rector, Miss Clapham and Lady Pennington were each speaking to him in turn.
“No,” Anderson said to Lady Pennington. “I won’t go with you.”
Harbury approached, staring down his nose. He kept his expression haughty, his eyes cold. Lady Pennington turned.
“Your Grace.” She dipped into a curtsey and then took a step backwards.
“Clapham, you are excused,” he said to the rector. “As are the rest of you.”
Anderson immediately rose to his feet.
“Not you. Nor the”—he added a touch of disgust—“lady.”
Moving closer to her father, Lady Pennington nodded. The rest of the room cleared.
“Anderson, you’ve done well.”
Anderson’s hold on the flint box tightened. “I have?”
“The imposter has been removed.” He nodded regally. “Exactly as I would have wished.”
“I knew,” Anderson whispered. “I knew you wouldn’t want the imposter in your seat. In your study. Going through your accounts. Not to mention reveling in those books of…of…” Anderson’s face darkened.
“Filth,” Harbury said, hating that he must disparage the collection of tomes that had so increased his and Cassandra’s pleasure.
But filth was how his rigid father would have described them.
“Filth.” Anderson nodded. “And degradation.”
Degradation. What a word for an act that was essentially the most powerful way of communicating love, the genesis of life itself.
“Just so.” Keeping his chin raised, he held out his hand. “As there is no longer any threat to myself, I should like the flint box.”
Anderson blinked down. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, you should have it.”
Harbury received the box. “And now I have an even more important mission for you.”
“Yes?” Anderson queried hopefully.
“Your daughter must be kept safe. I want you to go with her. Watch over her.”
Anderson frowned.
“She is the only one besides us who knows, who understands,” Harbury improvised.
“B-But what of you?” Anderson asked.
“Must I remind you?” Harbury narrowed his gaze. “I do not, as you know, tolerate any question of my authority.”
“Of course.” Anderson bowed. “I am grateful to be of service.”
“Come.” Lady Pennington put her arm around her father’s shoulders. “Let me take you home.”
Anderson nodded, looking as weary as Harbury felt. Then, he and Lady Pennington slowly made their way down the center aisle before exiting the church.
*
Alone in the church, Harbury let the silence around him gather. Becoming his father had been far more difficult than he’d anticipated. The weight of their combined mistakes weighed on his shoulders as he stared up at his father’s likeness.
Echoes of their past arguments rang in his head. But his experience of those memories had fundamentally shifted. He no longer felt as if he’d been in the wrong on every subject.