Chapter Nineteen
Adrian’s brother Cedric overtook them less than a mile from the bridge.
A small band of outriders from the estate accompanied him.
He explained that he had been waiting at the main crossroads to escort them to Scarfield and was concerned at their delay.
He whitened when Adrian explained what had happened during his detour.
“Thank God none of you were killed,” Cedric said in distress. “This is not the homecoming any of us envisioned.”
Lady Dalrymple stuck her head out the window. “Two of them escaped into the woods. I shall not sleep for weeks.”
Adrian took his brother aside. “My coachman took a pistol ball in his upper leg. It needs attention. There is also a body lying back before the bridge that requires a hasty burial.”
“You—you killed one of them?”
Adrian frowned. “I hope I wasn’t expected to shake his hand and ask him to come meet my father. I think I killed him, Cedric. That is my wife in the carriage. I would have killed every one of the curs had I caught them.”
“I see,” Cedric said faintly. He blinked several times. “But you didn’t—well, you know—”
Adrian stared at his brother. Was this cowed lordling the result of his father’s constant browbeatings? “I didn’t what, man? For God’s sake, spit it out.”
“You didn’t, um”—Cedric loosened his spotless white cravat—“behead this man, did you? The papers were full of reports—I only ask so that I may warn the servants what to expect.”
Adrian almost laughed. He realized that his family had kept abreast of his exploits.
His father’s letters had revealed as much.
However, he had not expected that they would believe every exaggerated account that had been written about him.
“Do not worry,” he said in a wry undertone.
“We can feed the head to my wolf pack at a later time.”
Cedric nodded weakly. “You’re teasing me. You always teased me, Adrian. It really isn’t fair, you know. Florence and I cried inconsolably when you left. I had no one to stand up for me when you went away.”
Adrian clasped his brother’s arm. “I’m home for now at least,” he said. “And if you allow it, I’ll stand up for you whenever necessary.”
Cedric dredged up a lukewarm grin. “I’ll more than allow it. I am glad to see you again, Adrian. And life here has not been as tragic as I have made it sound. Sad, perhaps, but let us hope that is all behind us.”
It was evening when the ducal coach reached the estate under mounted escort. Emma was grateful to seek refuge in the rooms that she and Adrian had been allotted, even if the duke had made a point of asking to see his son alone.
“I know this will be unpleasant,” she whispered to Adrian as they stood together in a vaulted entrance ornamented with stags’ heads while their luggage was unloaded. “Do your best to remember his age and the respect you owe him.”
He stayed at her side until a servant in formal livery arrived to announce that the upstairs rooms had been warmed and made comfortable for the night. Thereupon he launched into a prepared speech about how heartening it was to have the duke’s heir home.
For his part Adrian fought a devilish urge to slap the stuffy fellow on the back and beg him to leave off his long-winded welcome. Emma, on the other hand, nodded as if all this formality were her due and followed the chattering little man across the hall.
And suddenly Adrian felt empty, and on edge.
He watched his wife disappear up the dark Jacobean staircase with Hermia and Odham. He had played on those stairs as a child. He had slid down the balustrade with his wooden sword to terrify the servants and his two younger siblings.
Wild little demon, they’d whispered. Son of a whore and a soldier. No one thought he’d come to a good end.
He had returned to reclaim his past. His birthright. He was a ghost, he thought. The boy who’d frolicked in this house had died years ago.
Hermia leaned lightly on Emma’s arm as the pair of them ascended the long staircase, Odham and the loquacious footman leading the way.
“The duke has given us an entire wing,” Hermia said in approval.
Emma sighed.
By now Adrian had gone to the duke’s private chambers across the courtyard.
She knew he’d wished her to accompany him.
But she had claimed to be exhausted from the day’s ordeal.
Poor Adrian, she mused. He would probably have preferred to fight off another band of brigands rather than face his father.
Two chambermaids guided her down a hallway lined with tall Venetian-glass mirrors. “Madam,” the eldest maid said, “one of us will sleep on the bench outside your door all night should you require anything.”
Emma nodded, not truly listening. Hermia and Odham had been assigned separate rooms at the end of the hall. Hermia was already asking the footman to make certain that any connecting doors were locked.
One of the chambermaids swallowed a yawn. “There’ll be a pint drunk to Lord and Lady Wolverton’s health in the local house tonight.”
Emma hesitated, eyeing Hermia coming toward her. It was perfectly unacceptable to prod a servant into repeating gossip, and yet suddenly she could not resist. “Lord Wolverton must have many relatives, close friends, who have awaited his return.”
“We’re all relieved to have the young master home, my lady,” the woman said. Which was a polite reply but lacking the information Emma had hoped for.
“How convivial of them.” She came to a halt outside the door. Hermia had paused to admire her reflection in a mirror. “The girls,” she prompted, clearing her throat. “The local ladies will be happy to see him again, I suppose.”
For a moment the two maids stared back at her with such an absence of comprehension that she could have shouted. “I suppose they will,” was the first’s formal, unsatisfactory response.
“Heavens above, Emma,” Hermia said as she swept toward them. “Do stop dancing about the issue and ask them outright.”
Emma frowned. “As tactful as thunder, aren’t we, dear?”
“When one advances in age,” Hermia said, “one is disinclined to waste precious time worrying about what others think.”
Emma gave her a wry look. “It seems to me that some people did not worry about the polite world even when they were young.”
Hermia smiled. “Some of us learned our lessons at a tender age, thank goodness. I could not imagine a life more wasted than one dedicated to pleasing others.” She directed her attention to two chambermaids who’d most likely been warned how peculiar London ladies could act at times.
“What Lady Wolverton wishes to know is whether her husband has any sweethearts awaiting his return.”
“Oh.” The older of the chambermaids brightened. “Oh.”
“I think I’ll go to bed now,” Emma said. “Thank you for that humiliation, Hermia. I shall pretend that our experience today caused this unspeakable breach of confidence.”
Hermia put her hands on her hips. “Do I need a spoonful of treacle to loose that tongue?” she asked the chambermaid. “Is there, or is there not, a young woman hereabouts who wears her heart on her sleeve for your young master?”
The maid nodded slowly. “You mean, Lady Serena? Why didn’t you say so?”
Hermia’s mouth hardened. “At last. Is this Lady Serena married?”
“Oh, no, ma’am.”
Emma ducked her head, then opened the door to a warm firelit chamber. “Good night, everyone.”
“Nah,” the maid said. “She hasn’t had time to marry what with all the work that fell upon her shoulders when her father took sick. Her day’ll come soon, I reckon.”
The younger maid chimed in. “There ain’t a person within twenty miles what don’t worship Lady Serena.”
“I see,” Hermia said, narrowing her eyes. “A paragon. I don’t mean to sound unkind, but this lady sounds to be a bit of a spinster.”
“All I know is that she’s a beauty, ma’am,” the second maid answered. “A spot of sunlight on a cold winter day.”
Adrian stood for several moments behind his chair and examined his father’s oak-paneled drawing room.
This had not been a familiar place in his youth.
Children had been forbidden to enter the duke’s hallowed sanctuary.
Now the entire family, his brother and sister, his medieval aunt, even the stooped estate manager, had assembled to greet the prodigal.
The gratitude on their faces, the affection, all older and more important to him than he’d realized, humbled him.
“The young viscount is home,” Bridgewater, the bald secretary, said over and over. “Home after all these years.”
“Where’s he been, anyway?” his great-aunt asked.
His father stared at him, tall, a stone thinner, but still a man who commanded a room. “It doesn’t matter where he’s been. He’s home.”
His sister Florence smiled at him warmly. “And brought a wife. Where is she, Adrian?”
“Is she a foreign woman?” his aunt asked. “I hope the English weather doesn’t make her ill.”
Adrian chuckled. The only good thing he could say of his family meeting Emma was that she would be able to handle them, and with far more grace than he could muster, too.
“Adrian was set upon by brigands at the bridge,” Florence explained gently. “He fought them off, Aunt Thea. Everyone is fine, it seems.”
The elderly woman nodded in approval. “Foreign brigands, I suppose. Why did you go away, Adrian? I’ve missed your company so much. Cedric is boring, and Florence has forgotten how to laugh.”
Adrian smiled at her. “I’ve missed you, too.”
“What is your wife’s name, dear?”
“Emma. Emma Boscastle.”
“That doesn’t sound very foreign.”
The duke, who had been quietly watching this scene unfold, motioned to his estate manager. “Do you mind taking everyone to the conservatory for wine and cake, Bridgewater? Adrian and I will join you shortly.”
And then, moments later, Adrian was alone with the duke, still unable to think of him as his father, but not able to dredge up his former hatred, either.
He waited in resignation. There was an old picture mounted on the wall of his mother in a riding habit with her beloved spaniel.
A deep ache stirred inside him. She had not deserved to die in condemnation.
“You look well,” he said to the duke, “for a man who is suffering a terminal illness.”
“I could have been dead ten times over in the time you took coming here,” the duke retorted.
“I—”
“Don’t lie. I have no wish to fight with you. We have too many issues to pound out concerning the estate.”
“Are you and Lady Dalrymple truly old friends?” he asked, seeking a more neutral subject.
“Hermia?” The duke’s careworn features seemed to soften.
“I sought her favor as a callow youth, and lost. It is to your credit that she befriends you.” He put his hand to his breastbone, his eyes suddenly dark.
“Indigestion, Adrian,” he said with a grimace.
“Are you done evading the matter of your responsibilities?”
Adrian hesitated. In his memory his father had always been omnipotent, invulnerable, aloof at his best. At his worst, Scarfield had seemed weak-willed and malicious. And now? He could not deny his father had aged and, unexpectedly, he pitied him.
He shifted. “It’s been a long day—”
As if he’d been eavesdropping, Bridgewater entered the room bearing a tray of medicine. “It’s time for your evening cordial, your grace.”
“Do you have nothing better to do with yourself than interrupt me every five minutes?” the duke asked in more resignation than anger.
Bridgewater smiled. He, too, showed the signs of age and service.
Adrian came to his feet. Bridgewater and his family had been devoted to Scarfield ever since, well, according to Bridgewater, ever since the damned Crusades. And although Adrian could not pretend affection for the duke, he did not wish him ill. He was not sure what, if anything, he felt.
“Aren’t you in the least bit curious about your old love?” his father asked.
Adrian managed to grin. “My sheepdog is still alive?”
The duke chuckled as Bridgewater hovered at his side with a glass of cordial. “I meant Serena, the girl you were meant to marry.”
Adrian raised his brow. “Do not tell me you’ve convinced her to wait for me.”
His father laughed, and suddenly, to Adrian’s surprise, some of the awkwardness between them seemed to ease. “To be honest, Adrian, I think Serena has always been more in love with her horses than with you. Now, when am I to be introduced to your bride?”
Adrian met his father’s eyes. “Tomorrow.”
“A Boscastle,” the duke mused. “How did you manage it?”
He shook his head, unable to hide his pride and happiness. “I don’t know. But I will confess she is the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
“Married and obviously besotted. I look forward to meeting your wife at breakfast.”
Besotted.
Adrian locked the bedchamber door behind him and stared at the alluring figure on the bed. There was a book, still open, in her hand.
The candle on the nightstand had burned low. He blew it out, undressed, and crawled into bed beside his wife.
She sat up with a small shriek of protest. “Adrian, you are absolutely freezing!”
He laughed and pulled her back into his arms. “You’re very warm,” he whispered, burying his hands in her hair.
“What about your father?”
“I don’t know. I’d say he tended toward the cold side, but if you’re really curious, you could ask Bridgewater.”
She arched her brow. “Since you’re smiling, I shall assume all went well.”
“Well enough. We didn’t argue.”
She sighed as if she sensed what he’d left unsaid, then curled herself around his body. “Still, it must feel good to be home.”
The warmth of her presence relaxed him. His wife. “It feels good to be here with you. I wouldn’t have come back alone.”
Her voice deepened to a drowsy whisper. “It’s a beautiful estate, Adrian. The park looked like paradise in the moonlight.”
He stroked his hand down her spine. “I’ll show you the rest of it tomorrow.”
“And I suppose I’ll meet everyone then?”
He closed his eyes. It wasn’t home. Too many painful memories lingered, in every room, in every face. “You’ve already met my brother. Florence and my father are impatient to see the lady who tamed me.”
“No old friends showed up for the prodigal’s return?” she asked innocently.
“If you mean Serena,” he said mischievously, “then no.”
She was quiet for a moment. He wished she understood that there never had been, nor would there be, a woman who could compare to her.
“Do you think,” she asked after several moments, “that you might like to stay here?”
“In Berkshire, perhaps. I promised you a country school. But not here. Not now.”
“I do feel guilty,” she whispered, “that I left my duties in London unfulfilled.”
“We can leave whenever you wish,” he said idly. He’d never discussed his foreign investments with her. The typical English aristocrat thought earning money to be a vulgar occupation, but the truth was that he could afford to make their home anywhere she desired.
She sat up unexpectedly, leaving him bereft of her pleasingly warm body. “Are you in a particular hurry to make a return journey with Hermia and Odham, my lord?”
“That,” he said, pulling her back against him with a laugh, “is a thought to give one pause.”