The Courtship (windham) Read online

  Murder now joined rape in the part of the conversation Lord Percival was not speaking aloud. Murder, rape, and offense to the honor of any officer, any honest man, present on the scene. Esther wanted to touch him, to stop him from speaking more words that would hurt him and forever haunt her.

  “General Starkweather assembled a firing squad. He made sure I was directly on hand when the lads were given the command to shoulder arms. If I interfered, I was of course, guilty of insubordination of a magnitude that would earn me a conclusion to my troubles in the same manner our captives were facing.”

  Rape, murder, dishonor, execution.

  While all around him, gossip wanted to accuse Percival Windham of frivolousness and debauchery.

  “You did not give the order to fire. Not on helpless women and children.”

  He sat up, set the cup on the ground, and peered over at her for a long moment before he resumed speaking, his words addressed to a patch of rosemary growing across the walk.

  “There was an old woman, a stout little thing with a brown face as wrinkled as a prune. She’d been carrying an infant the entire distance, and the child had begun to fuss, likely from hunger. I sat there on my horse, wrapped from head to toe in thick layers of wool, while that old woman shivered, her own blanket given up to keep the child warm. I have never seen such fortitude before or since.

  “The men figured out what Starkweather was up to, and the quality of their silence was as chilling as the wind in those woods. Picture this: snow all around us, two hundred of His Majesty’s finest poised to witness murder, and the only sound the wind in the pine boughs and that crying baby.”

  Rape, murder, dishonor, hanging, dread, and no options.

  “The old woman tickled the baby’s chin.”

  Lord Percival reached over and brushed a knuckle twice over the point of Esther’s chin. “She tickled the baby’s chin, jostled him and jollied him, until he was laughing as babies will. Despite the cold, despite his hungry belly, despite the firing squad several yards away, the baby laughed. Starkweather gave the command to take aim then told me to take over.”

  “You did not do murder. I know you did not.”

  How did she know it, though? From the kindness in his eyes when he flirted? From the weariness he’d let her see by moonlight? From the fact that he’d even noticed an old woman with the courage to tickle a baby while death loomed?

  “I did not give the order to fire, Esther Himmelfarb. I will admit to you I was insubordinate, and Tony was there to witness it. As I opened my mouth and gave the command to order arms, the air was filled with a shrieking such as I hope never to hear again. The trapping party had tracked us, circled around front and taken their position in the trees above the trail. I regret to report that though casualties on both sides were minimal, General Starkweather did not survive the affray.”

  Had he killed his superior officer? Esther did not think so, but neither did she care if he had. “Good. The man was not fit to command.”

  Lord Percival regarded her again for a long, long moment, until his lips curved up in a grave, sweet smile. “A court martial would not have rendered that decision, my dear.”

  “Then a higher court intervened in a timely fashion, my lord. Surely you cannot argue my conclusion?”

  “I cannot—I will not, given your insistence, but neither will I be romanticizing the appeal of the military. If I retain my commission, I’ll likely ask for and get an administrative position. I excel at recall and application of rules and regulations—I should probably have become a barrister, except the inactivity would have bored me silly.”

  In the past five minutes, they’d gone from an uneasy discussion on a hard bench, to a conversation between two refugees from… life. “You’ll hate working at a desk, my lord.”

  “I’d hate even more the vapid existence of a younger son dancing about on the end of Her Grace’s leash. My sister-in-law begged us to come home, and Tony and I could refuse Bella nothing.”

  “You are fond of Lady Pembroke?”

  “I was eight years old when I met her, and yes, she is the first woman I fell in love with, if you discount Mrs. Wood.”

  He was perfectly, astoundingly serious. “Mrs. Wood was your governess?” This was safer ground, no awful words lurking unsaid, but in some ways the honesty he offered was equally dangerous.

  “The very one. A dear old soul who made Latin and French into games and declared sums fit only for naughty boys on rainy days. Tony and I adored her. My father intervened when the tutors took over and said Mrs. Wood must stay on as our French instructor because her accent was superior.”

  “Can you speak any French at all?”

  “Je vous adore, Miss Himmelfarb, will that do? I enjoy languages, but find sums a bloody lot of work, particularly in a commercial context. You know, you never did tell me how you endure these infernal house parties. Tony thinks we’ve been sent here to convince us to take brides out of sheer self-preservation. A bachelor’s pillorying earned by our failure to become engaged this past winter.”

  A little dart of pain lanced through the sense of commiseration Esther had been fancying she shared with Lord Percival. A man who complained of being marital prey did not regard present company as a threat.

  Which she wasn’t. He was a duke’s son, after all.

  “I do as little as possible to burden the help, for one thing. These parties are very trying for them, and they can be unexpected allies.”

  “Sound advice. Mannering has to do double duty, serving both myself and Tony. But how do you… endure?”

  His tone held genuine consternation, a sentiment Esther could share all too easily.

  “Nap in the middle of the day, my lord. Don’t drink to excess ever, and keep a chair wedged under your door latch if you’re alone in your room. If your drink tastes the least strange, set it aside, the same with your food. Retire to your room on the pretext of seeing to correspondence, and you should be given some privacy. I also ride out on the fine days but take a groom with me, even when I’d prefer a solitary outing.”

  His examination of her this time was not accompanied by a smile. “I see you are a veteran of these gatherings, Miss Himmelfarb. Why aren’t you married, if you find them so tedious?”

  “Maybe for the same reasons you aren’t married.” Even that was probably saying too much. Esther retrieved her empty cup from where it sat on the ground between them. “I ought to be going in, my lord.”

  “Percival, or Percy to my friends. We can be friends, can we not?”

  He was offering something—friendship, of some offhand, passing variety—even as he removed from consideration the curious, budding, silly notion that he might have noticed her as a man notices a young woman.

  “I must be going.” Esther scooted to the edge of the bench only to find her companion on his feet, his hand under her elbow.

  “I’d see you in, Esther Himmelfarb, and even up to your room, but we both know what gossip that might cause. My thanks for your company and for sharing your posset.”

  She turned to go, but his hand was still on her arm and his fingers closed around her wrist. A few beats of silence went by while Esther cataloged impressions.

  He was wonderfully tall and substantial, a man upon whom even an Amazon like herself could lean, confident of his support.

  At the end of a long day, his scent was still beguilingly pleasant. Not overwhelming, not cloying, just a teasing hint of cedar and spices that made her want to close her eyes and breathe through her nose.

  And he was near enough that Esther could feel the heat of his body in the moonlit shadows.

  “Good night, Esther.”

  “Good night, my—Percival.”

  Would he kiss her? She hoped he would, a token kiss to her cheek, a small memory of pleasure in the midst of purgatory, a touch to make all that had been shared before a little more real.

  His lips brushed her forehead before he dropped her wrist. “Sweet dreams, my lady.”

>   She was being dismissed. Esther stepped back—did not curtsy—and left him standing in the garden, bathed in cool, silvery moonlight and solitude.

  Two

  “Moreland! You will attend me! Hippolyta Morrisette has sent news!”

  Her Grace’s trajectory into the breakfast parlor was checked by the need to turn sideways to fit her panniers through the doorway, though this did nothing to stop her prattling. “Not four days into the house party, and both boys are already much admired by several young ladies.”

  George, His Grace, the Duke of Moreland, rose from his place at the table. “Good morning, Your Grace. I trust you slept well?” He tossed a meaningful glance at old Thomas standing at attention by the sideboard.

  Her Grace’s lips thinned as she allowed her husband to seat her. “I slept abominably, though I find this morning there is cause for cautious optimism.”

  She would not be silenced, not by the presence of a servant, not by the open door, not by anything less than the hand of Almighty God slapped over her mouth, and even then she’d give the Deity a struggle for form’s sake. Her Grace was a determined woman and always had been.

  His Grace flicked a glance at one of his oldest retainers. “Thomas, if you’ll excuse us?”

  The barest hint of commiseration showed in the old man’s eyes before he bowed once to the duke, again to the duchess, and withdrew, closing the door behind him.

  “His knees creak, Moreland. You should pension him before he keels over in his livery.”

  And lose one of few allies under the ducal roof? “Thomas serves loyally, Your Grace, and has some good years left in him. May I fix you a plate?”

  Her Grace fluffed her skirts just so. “Please. I’ll have eggs, toast, ham, a portion of apple tart, and half a scone with butter and strawberry jam.”

  Determination apparently built up an appetite, and yet the woman still had a fine figure—from what His Grace could gather. They’d had separate apartments for more than twenty years, and what happened in the early hours of the day behind the closed door of Her Grace’s dressing room remained a mystery.

  As well it should.

  His Grace needed two plates to hold the food his wife had requested. He set the plates down before her and took his place at the opposite end of the table. “What news have you had from Lady Morrisette?”

  The duchess tucked into her breakfast, gesturing with her fork for the teapot. “I don’t know as I can trust Hippolyta Morrisette’s veracity, but she claims both Tony and Percy are quite as sought after as Quimbey himself.”

  Then the boys were to be pitied. “Is that so?”

  “You will not take that tone with me, Moreland. We need grandsons, and it’s my duty to ensure we get them. Criticize me for many things, but I am dutiful.” She glowered at him for a moment for emphasis—unnecessary emphasis—before returning to her meal.

  They hadn’t started out sniping at each other. They’d started out two young, lusty people who’d hoped and prayed their parents had found them a suitable mate. And for a time…

  And then little Eustace had fallen from his pony, and it had become clear that they’d buried marital happiness along with their firstborn son. Thank a merciful God the accoucheur had told the duchess that Tony was the last child she could safely carry. Ten years of Her Grace’s grim focus on marital duty had about given His Grace’s interest in procreation a permanent tendency to wilt.

  Shrugging that thought aside, the duke tried for a tone that was conciliatory without being condescending. “You have become determined on grandchildren only since Twombly took a child bride, Your Grace. He should be shot for mistreating your sensibilities, but you’ll soon be surrounded by other gallants. Did Lady Morrisette mention any young ladies in particular?”

  Her Grace stirred sugar into her tea with vengeance. “Twombly deserves his fate, marrying a mere girl. She’ll be the death of him, mark me on this, Moreland. And of course I will have other gallants, but Twombly was a fine dancer.”

  Twombly was an aging hanger-on, not worthy of Agatha Venetia Drysdale Windham’s notice, though it was none of His Grace’s affair where or with whom his wife spent her time. Still, a husband was entitled to the occasional protective gesture.

  “Shall I call him out for you when he’s back from his wedding journey?”

  The duchess shifted on her seat. “Wouldn’t that be a fine thing if he prevailed, leaving me a dowager duchess with no grandsons? No, thank you, Moreland. And yes, Hippolyta says Lady Zephora Needham is spending as much time as possible with Percy and Tony, and Charlotte Pankhurst is pitching for whichever son is not escorting the Needham girl. Needham is an earl, but Pankhurst is in line for a marquessate, and those are not to be sneezed at. Pass the cream.”

  His Grace obliged, and then—knowing it was folly—gave his wife the benefit of his thinking regarding the entire campaign to see the younger sons wed.

  “You know, Pembroke may yet have more children. We needn’t be hasty with Percival and Tony, and might regret forcing their hands.”

  Her Grace paused in mid-chew and raised her head, like a grazing animal scenting an intruder in its grassy paddock. “That useless twit Pembroke married will produce nothing but girls, Moreland. What use are girls, tell me?”

  You were a girl once. I had rather more use for you then, and you for me.

  “Girls provide the Crown an opportunity to modify the letters patent, to entertain the notion of special remainders, the viscountcy—”

  “The Morefield viscountcy can be preserved through the female line, but why, why on earth, should this family revert to a lesser title when, for nearly two hundred years, a dukedom has been ours to command?”

  Oh, woe to the duke who provoked Her Grace on the subject of “our” dukedom. While her eggs grew cold and His Grace’s digestion became tentative, Her Grace prosed on for a good five minutes about duty, chits, twits, and sons who ought to accept the guidance of a mother devoted—dee-voted, I tell you!—to nothing but their lifelong happiness.

  “So,” she concluded with a stab of the butter knife toward her husband, “I’d prefer the Pankhurst girl, though the Needham heiress as a contingency plan will do nicely.”

  A concerned father had to ask, regardless of the risks involved. “And what about Tony? Is he to have the contingency plan for his bride if Percy can win the Pankhurst girl?”

  “Of course not.” Her Grace tore off a bite of scone and eyed it like a hawk might eye a lame mouse. “Gladys Holsopple has had two seasons, she has eight strapping brothers, and her mama assures me the girl is a very high stickler and well dowered too. She’ll do for Tony, though convincing him to take on a young lady so enamored of propriety will involve effort. I expect your support in this, Moreland.”

  She popped the bite of scone into her maw and started chewing like a squirrel.

  His Grace did not by word or deed give away certain information brought to his ears privately by loyal staff. “Somehow, my dear, I will convince Tony that a woman of unimpeachable character holds his best hope for marital happiness.”

  “See that you do, and pass the butter, if you please.”

  His Grace sent up yet one more prayer for the happiness of his younger sons and passed his duchess the butter.

  * * *

  A week in purgatory was a very long time, particularly when Michael was more enamored of the card room than any of the young ladies present. Esther told herself he was biding his time, waiting for the allure of Quimbey, Lord Tony, and Lord Percival to fade.

  Which ought to occur in no less than three decades at the latest, provided each man developed a tendency to flatulence.

  “Lady Zephora believes her bellpull is not working correctly.” Esther put as much apology into her tone as she could when she addressed the Morrisette butler. “I’m on my way to the kitchen to bring up another tea tray, for the young ladies have assembled in her drawing room this morning.”

  Hayes did not roll his eyes. He smiled beneficently, ma
ybe even consolingly. “These things do happen, Miss Himmelfarb. I’ll see to it and have a tea tray sent along posthaste.”

  The bellpull was not broken, and they both knew it.

  “I wouldn’t want to trouble the kitchen staff unnecessarily, Mr. Hayes. I’m on my way there, as it happens, and will cheerfully retrieve a tray for Lady Zephora.”

  The smile lurking in his eyes disappeared, because now they both knew the object of Zephora’s complaint had been not only to criticize the house staff for a slow response to incessant demands, but also to force Esther to fetch and carry like a servant.

  “If you say so, miss.” He gave her a deliberate formal bow and let her hustle along the corridor. Was it lying if the other party knew the falsehood for what it was? Esther hoped not, because another day—another hour—in purgatory would have her…

  What had Lord Percival said? Howling like a wolf and wearing his wig backward.

  She brushed aside the memory while she waited for the scullery maid—Patricia—to put together the tea tray. Percival Windham hadn’t so much as smiled at her in the past three days. He’d smiled at everyone else—servants, horses, dogs, debutantes, they all merited his smiles—while Esther had earned only a few brooding glances.

  And she hadn’t set one slippered toe in the kitchen garden after dark. As the full moon waned, so had the glow of that encounter with Lord Percival.

  Esther picked up the tray—the blasted thing was heavy—and headed for the maid’s stairs.

  “Miss.” Patricia’s voice had Esther pausing. “Not them stairs.”

  The front stairs, the ones used by family on their rare sorties to the lower regions of the house, would be longer, though Esther understood Patricia’s point: the maid’s stairs were for the help.

  The damned tray was heavy. Esther shook her head and started for the maid’s stairs, only to understand halfway up that Patricia’s warning hadn’t been about appearances and self-respect, or not only about those things.

  “Miss Himmelfarb.” Jasper Layton lounged on the first landing, elbows propped on the banister as he gazed down at her. “What on earth could cause a proper young lady to lurk on the back stairs so early in the day?”