WATCHING HANNAH over the next hour and a half, Constantine tried to make the connection with the Duchess of Dunbarton as he had always known her, and as he had encountered her earlier in the spring in Hyde Park, at the Merriwether ball, at the Heaton concert, at the Fonteyn garden party. It was rather disorienting to discover that he could not do it. He could not see her as the same person.
It was not just that she wore a faded blue, almost shabby, riding habit. Or that her hair was dressed simply and was even slightly untidy after she removed her hat inside the house. It was not even that she donned a large white apron, which had been hanging on the back of the door in the manager’s office. It really had nothing to do with her outer appearance.
It had everything to do with the woman inside the outer shell, the woman he had not seen at all until after they became lovers and had seen only in snatched glimpses since then. At Land’s End that woman stood fully revealed, a butterfly free of its cocoon and fluttering about, beautiful, energetic, sparkling with joy and bringing that joy to all around her.
He was, quite simply, dazzled.
He was also quite alarmingly in love.
It was not upon him that her beauty and energy and joy were focused, though she did smile at him every time she looked his way and included him in the aura of her magnetic charm.
She presented him to Mrs. Broome, the manager, a lady of middle years and pleasant appearance and soft-spoken manner, and together they began a tour of the home. But it did not last for very long. An elderly man who was sitting in the residents’ drawing room caught hold of the duchess’s arm-he called her “Miss Hannah,” as they all did-and proceeded to tell her at great length about the latest exploits of his grandchildren. They were a figment of his imagination, Mrs. Broome explained as she walked onward with Constantine, leaving the duchess behind, but they brought him pleasure nonetheless and he loved to have someone willing to listen to his stories. And then two elderly ladies, who were sitting side by side in a wide upper hallway, wanted to know after they had been introduced to him if Mr. Huxtable had come with Miss Hannah-they had heard she was here. When he admitted that he had, they wanted to know if he was going to marry her. She deserved someone young and devilishly handsome like him, they both decided, and they cackled with glee when he grinned and winked at them and told them they would have to ask her that. Mrs. Broome meanwhile had been called away to deal with some emergency.
Constantine wandered alone after that, keeping mainly to the lower floor, where it seemed that most of the rooms were open for the communal use of the residents, though Mrs. Broome had explained that all had rooms of their own, where they could be private and no one could enter without first knocking and being given permission to enter. It was one of the few rules of the house.
“It is a home,” she had added. “It is not an institution, Mr. Huxtable. There are very few rules, and all have to be first suggested and then voted upon by the tenants themselves. It may sound like a recipe for chaos, and I was a little dubious when her grace insisted upon it, I must confess, but for some reason it works like a charm. People, I suppose, are less likely to break rules that have been imposed by themselves and not by some autocratic outsider.”
He stopped several times to speak to elderly people as he moved about and to a few of the employees who cared for their needs.
Hannah was still listening to the elderly gentleman with the imaginary grandchildren when he went downstairs. She was holding his hand and giving him her full, bright-eyed attention. The next time Constantine saw her, she was in the plant-filled conservatory, patiently feeding an old woman who was staring blankly ahead of her, and this time she was doing the talking, smiling and animated just as if the woman could understand and respond. And who knew? Perhaps she could understand. A little later Constantine saw Hannah on the terrace outside the conservatory, a thin old man leaning on her arm as they walked. She had her head turned toward him and was laughing. He stopped walking to look up at her, and he was laughing too.
The older one got, Constantine thought, the easier it was to believe that all lives followed their own very definite pattern, that all things happened for a reason. Not fate exactly. That took away free will and made nonsense of life. But some unseen force that drew each person toward the lesson that needed to be learned, the life that needed to be lived, the fulfillment that needed to be achieved. And perhaps ultimate happiness. The disasters of life in retrospect were often its greatest blessings.
Hannah’s heart had been broken when she was nineteen in a particularly cruel manner. She had simultaneously lost the man she loved and the future she had planned with him and her trust in her only sister. And her father had let her down, even if he had been caught in a nasty situation. And then she had married a man old enough to be her grandfather, and he had lived for ten years, until her youth had gone.
But in the process of all that, she had not only learned how to guard herself against those who would exploit or resent her beauty without ever seeing her, how to control her life rather than be at the mercy of those who would do it for her and then blame her for being so beautiful and so vulnerable. She had also discovered what was perhaps the true purpose of her life-a deep love of those weaker than herself, specifically the elderly. And that discovery had released that part of herself that might forever have remained submerged beneath her beauty and its effect upon those around her if Young had married her. It was a self, Constantine was willing to wager, that was far more warm and vibrant than the person she had been when she was betrothed to Sir Colin Young.
The past eleven years of her life had followed a definite pattern, something she could never have predicted or planned twelve years ago. Those years had not been an interval in her life, a lost youth. They had been integral to it, a well-spent youth.
It had been no coincidence that she had discovered the truth about her betrothed and her sister at that particular wedding, or that Dunbarton had attended it and escaped to the very room where she had unburdened herself to her father. It had been cosmic theater in progress. Except that only the scene had been set by the master producer. The script had not been written.
Even now, of course, she was fearful. She hid herself behind the Siren’s mask of the Duchess of Dunbarton. But that too was part of the pattern. She was still fragile. Like a person trapped in a burning building and clinging to the sill of an upper floor, she was afraid to take the final drop to the safety of the blanket being held below. She needed to be given time to do it in her own way, when she was ready.
But who was he to judge?
Besides, it would be a pity if the Duchess of Dunbarton were to disappear entirely. She was a magnificent, fascinating creature.
She was coming inside with the elderly man, Constantine could see, and she smiled warmly at him when she saw him standing there.
“Are you going to sit in the conservatory and enjoy the sunshine, Mr. Ward?” she asked.
“I am going up to my room to rest for a while,” he said. “You have exhausted me, Miss Hannah. I shall sleep and dream of you and of being a young man again like this one here.”
“Have you met Mr. Huxtable?” she asked. “He came here with me today. He is my friend.”
“Sir.” Constantine inclined his head. “May I help you to your room?”
“I can get there on my own, young man,” Ward said, “if you will hand me the cane propped against that chair. I thank you for your kindness, but I like to do things for myself while I can. I could have walked outside with my cane, but I was not going to refuse an offer to walk arm in arm with a lady instead, now, was I? And me a mere dock worker all my life.”
He chuckled and Constantine smiled.
“We will leave now,” the duchess said as the old man walked slowly away. “I hope the time has not been tedious for you.”
“It has not,” Constantine assured her.
Ten minutes later they were on horseback again and on their way back to Copeland. They did not speak until he had let them into the meadow beyond the lawn and shut the gate behind them and ridden half across the meadow.
“I think, Duchess,” he said, “that house is filled with happy people.”
She turned her head to smile at him.
“Mrs. Broome is a perfect manager,” she said. “And she has a wonderful staff.”
And she was happy when she was at that house, he thought. It was her marriage to the elderly duke that had brought her there.
The pattern of life.
And the pattern of Jon’s life had led to Ainsley, though he had not lived to see it.
And his own? Had he been born two days early-two days before his parents married-so that he would be illegitimate and unable to inherit the title himself? Had he found a better, more meaningful purpose for his life than he would have found as Earl of Merton? Was he better off, happier, than he would otherwise have been?
It was a dizzying thought.
Perhaps the circumstances of his birth had not blighted the whole of his life after all. Perhaps his secret affair with Jon’s dream was what his life was meant to bring him.
Perhaps he had benefited as much from Ainsley as the people who had passed through it.
“You are brooding,” she said.
“Not at all,” he assured her. “It is just my Mediterranean looks.”
“Which of course are quite splendid,” she said, sounding more like the old duchess. “No man without them could brood half as well.”
He laughed.
They rode onward in companionable silence until they came close to Copeland.
“I’ll take you back a different way,” she said. “There is something I want you to see.”
“Another cause?” he asked.
“Not at all,” she said. “Quite the opposite. A pure self-indulgence.”
And instead of riding into the park and across it on the shortest route to the house, she skirted about its outer wooded edge until by Constantine’s estimation they must be quite far behind the house. She drew her horse to a halt.
“It is best to go by foot from here,” she said, “and lead the horses.”
Before he could dismount and help her down, she had jumped down herself. She patted her horse’s nose, looped the reins about one hand, and led the way among the trees. Constantine followed and soon there was the illusion of being deep in a wilderness, far from civilization.
She stopped eventually and lifted her face to the high branches overhead. They had not spoken for five minutes or more.
“Listen,” she said, “and tell me what you hear.”
“Silence?” he suggested after a few moments.
“Oh, no,” she said. “There is almost never true silence, Constantine, and most of us would not welcome it if there were. It would be a little frightening, I believe, like true darkness. There would be only a void. Listen again.”
And this time he heard all kind of sounds-the breathing of their horses, birdsong, insect whirrings, the rustle of leaves in the slight breeze, the distant moo of a cow, other unidentified sounds of nature.
“That,” she said in a hushed voice sometime later, “is the sound of peace.”
“I believe you are right,” he said.
“The wilderness walk, if there were one,” she said, “would surely pass this way. It is perfect for such a project. There would be benches and follies and colorful plants and vistas and goodness knows what else. It would be easily accessible and wondrously picturesque. But not peaceful. Not as this is peaceful. We are a part of all this as we stand, Constantine. We are not a dominant species. We are not in control of it all. There is enough control in my life. This is where I come to find peace.”
He looped the reins of his horse loosely about a low tree branch and then took the reins from her hand and tied them there too. He took her by the arm, turned her so that her back was against the trunk of another tree, and leaned his body against hers. He cupped her face in both hands and kissed her mouth.
Devil take it but he was in love with her.
He had thought he would be safe with her. Safer than with any of his other mistresses. He had thought her vain, shallow. He had expected to enjoy nothing but raw lust with her.
The lust was there right enough.
And it was damnably raw.
But she was not safe at all.
For there was more than lust.
He was afraid to admit to himself that there might be considerably more.
She kissed him back, her arms twined about his neck, and soon she was away from the tree and caught up in his arms, and kisses became urgent and fevered. He glanced down at the forest floor and saw that it would make about as unsuitable a bed as it was possible for a piece of ground to make. He spread his hands over her buttocks and pressed her against his erection. She sighed into his mouth and drew back her head.
“Constantine,” she said, “I will not dishonor my other guests by making love with you on Copeland land.”
“Making love?” he said, looking pointedly downward. “On this mattress? I think not, indeed. I was merely claiming what remained of the prize I won earlier. And a very generous prize it was, I must say. I will race with you any day of the week, Duchess.”
“Next time,” she said, “I will ride Jet, and you can ride Clover. And then we will see a different winner.”
“Never in a million years,” he said. “And if you did win, if I allowed you to, what prize would you claim?”
He grinned lazily.
“If you allowed me to win?” She was suddenly all haughty duchess. “If you allowed it, Constantine?”
“Forget I said that,” he said. “What prize would you claim?”
“I would have you put a notice in all the London papers,” she said, “informing the ton that you had been bested in a horse race by the Duchess of Dunbarton, and that you had not allowed her to win.”
“You would make me the laughingstock?” he asked.
“Any man who is afraid to be bested by a woman once in a while,” she said, “is not worthy of her in any capacity whatsoever. Even as her lover.”
“Has your cook baked any humble pies today?” he asked her. “If so, I shall eat one whole as soon as we get back to the house. Am I forgiven?”
She laughed and tightened her arms about his neck and kissed him again.
“I am glad we are here,” she said. “More and more I discover that I am happier in the country than in London. I am enjoying these few days so very much. Are you?”
“Well,” he said, “they are sadly sexless, you know, Duchess. But enjoyable nevertheless.”
He tightened his arms about her waist, lifted her off the ground and twirled her once, twice about before setting her feet down again and smiling into her eyes.
They were sadly sexless days. Why, then, was he feeling so exuberant? So… happy?
They stared at each other, and suddenly the air about them pulsed with unspoken words. Words he was afraid to speak aloud lest he discover later tonight that he had been overhasty. Words she might have spoken aloud but did not. Did he imagine that she had words to say?
Could it be that this was more than the simple euphoria of being in love?
He did not know. He had never been in love before.
He certainly did not know that other thing, that love that went beyond the euphoria. That forever-after thing.
How did one know?
And so the words remained unspoken. On his side, certainly. And perhaps on hers too.
They retrieved their horses and wound their way through the trees until they came out onto open ground at one end of the lake. They walked side by side, easier though it would have been to walk single file. They were hand in hand. Their fingers were laced.
It felt more intimate than an embrace.
HANNAH HAD NOT PLANNED anything specific for the evening. She thought her guests would appreciate a quiet time in which they might do whatever they pleased. Marianne Astley, however, suggested a game of charades soon after the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room following dinner, and everyone seemed happy to join in.
It went on for a couple of hours until some people began to drop out and declared their intention of merely watching.
Hannah found herself drawn to one side by Lady Merton.
“I am going to step outside onto the terrace for some air, if I may,” the latter said, indicating the open French windows. “Will you join me?”
Hannah glanced around. No one would need her for a while. Barbara, flushed and animated, was acting out a phrase for her team, which was yelling out responses that elicited laughter and a few jeers from the opposing team.
“It is warm in here,” Hannah said.
It was cool outside but not unpleasant enough on the bare flesh of their arms to send them scurrying inside for shawls.
Lady Merton linked an arm through hers, and they strolled across the terrace and a little way out onto the lawn, where the light from the drawing room still made it possible for them to see where they were going.
“Miss Leavensworth is a lovely lady,” Lady Merton said. “You and she have been friends all your lives, she was telling us earlier.”
“Yes,” Hannah said. “I have been very fortunate.”
“But she lives far away from you most of the time,” Lady Merton said. “That is unfortunate. I have a dear friend who was once my governess and was then my companion. But always she was my friend, the one in whom I could confide anything and everything. She married last year, just before Stephen and I did. She is happily wed, I am glad to say, and she lives in London most of the year with Mr. Golding, her husband. I miss her even so. Close friends need to be close.”
“I am always thankful,” Hannah said, “that someone invented paper and ink and pens-and writing.”
“Yes,” her companion agreed. “But without Alice by my side almost every moment of the day last spring, I would have been dreadfully lonely. I was a widow, I was widely believed to have killed my husband, and I had been abandoned by my husband’s family and for a while by my own brother too.”
This, Hannah realized, was not just idle chatter.
“Even with Alice I was frequently lonely,” the countess said. “Until I met Stephen, that was, and was adopted by his family. They did not take to me easily, as you may imagine. But they are remarkable ladies, his sisters. They grew up in humble surroundings and in near-poverty, and seem far more able to see to the heart of a matter than many other members of the beau monde. And far more capable of compassion and understanding and true friendship.”
“You were fortunate indeed, Lady Merton,” Hannah said.
“You may call me Cassandra if you wish,” the countess said.
“Cassandra,” Hannah said. “It is a lovely name. I am Hannah.”
They stopped walking and both looked up at the moon, which had just drawn clear of a cloud. It was just off the full and looked lopsided.
“Hannah,” Cassandra said, “we made a mistake.”
“We?” Hannah asked.
“Stephen and his sisters did not even know of Constantine’s existence until they arrived at Warren Hall and met him,” Cassandra said. “They loved him immediately, and of course they felt dreadfully sorry for him because he had recently lost his last surviving brother. They understood how difficult it must have been for him to see them take over his home and to see Stephen take the title that had so recently been his brother’s. And of course there was all that business of his having been born just a couple of days too early to be able to inherit himself. Constantine is a very private and secretive man, and he has a long-standing quarrel with Elliott and now with Vanessa too, but nevertheless the rest of them are desperately fond of him and want above all to see him happy.”
“I have no intention of marrying him,” Hannah said, keeping her eyes on the moon. “Or of breaking his heart. We are engaged in an affair, Cassandra, as I am sure you are all very well aware, but not of the heart.”
She was not at all sure she spoke the truth, but it was probably the truth from his perspective, and that was all that mattered to his family. Though this afternoon…
“But that is the whole point,” Cassandra said with a sigh. “We were concerned, Hannah. Although Constantine is in his thirties and well able to look after his own affairs, nevertheless you are different from other women. We thought it altogether possible that you would toy with his affections, humiliate him, perhaps even hurt him. While we did not believe we needed to protect him from you-that would have been absurd-we did believe we ought to show our disapproval when we could.”
“And so,” Hannah said, “you refused my invitation to come here. It was your right. There is never any compulsion to accept invitations that are not to one’s liking. I never do. The duke taught me to assert myself in such ways. He taught me not to endure unnecessary boredom or to suffer fools gladly all in the name of obligation where there is no obligation. You do not owe me an explanation of why you refused, or why you changed your minds and came.”
“Hannah,” Cassandra said, “I was horribly misjudged when I arrived in London last year, and I was ostracized. There is no worse feeling, much as one may tell oneself that one does not care. You are not ostracized by society. Quite the contrary, in fact. But you are misjudged.”
“Perhaps,” Hannah said, drawing Lady Merton toward a bench beneath an oak tree close by, “I choose to be misjudged. There is a certain comfort in knowing that there is privacy even in the most public situation, in knowing that one can very effectively hide in full sight.”
They seated themselves and Cassandra laughed softly.
“I was destitute as well as everything else when I arrived in London last year,” she said, “and I had other persons dear to me to support as well as myself. I decided that the only way I could do it was to find a wealthy protector. And so I went to a ball to seduce Stephen, who looked to me like an angel. I made the mistake of believing that angels must also necessarily be weak and easily led-but that is another story. I can remember standing in that ballroom, an empty space all about me, everyone shocked that I would have come there uninvited, and wishing that I could curl into a tiny ball and simply disappear. I was sustained by the realization that no one knew me, that my real self was safely hidden deep within the brazen red-haired axe-murderer everyone thought they saw.”
“But the Earl of Merton danced with you,” Hannah said.
“That too is another story,” Cassandra said. “I of all people ought to have realized when I saw you earlier this spring that what I saw was not the real Duchess of Dunbarton.”
“Oh,” Hannah said, “she is very real indeed. I am the Duchess of Dunbarton. I married the duke when I was nineteen, and though the world will always believe that he married me for my youth and beauty and that I married him for his title and wealth, nevertheless I was his wife. And now I am his widow. He taught me how to be a duchess, how to hold my head high, how to control my own life and never let myself be exploited, for my beauty or any other attribute. I like the person he helped me to become, Cassandra. I am comfortable as the Duchess of Dunbarton.”
“I expressed myself poorly,” Cassandra said. “What I meant was that looking at you, I ought not to have believed that I was looking at the complete you. Even yet I do not presume to believe that I know you. But Margaret told us about how kind you were to Duncan’s grandfather when you called on her at Claverbrook House and how you kissed his cheek before you left. And about how you came to invite our children to this house party even though we had all rejected your invitation. And for the last two days I have seen a side of you that no one is allowed even to glimpse when you are in town. You are a warm, hospitable, generous, fun-loving person, Hannah, and I wanted you to know that I misjudged you. We all want you to know that.”
“You were the one chosen to have this word with me, then?” Hannah asked, not knowing whether to be amused or somehow hurt.
“Not at all,” Cassandra said. “But we did talk at length this afternoon while you were gone somewhere with Constantine and the children were either sleeping or playing elsewhere. And we agreed that we really must find a way of telling you how sorry we are that we rejected you on so little evidence.”
“You owe me nothing,” Hannah said.
“Of course we do not,” Cassandra agreed. “But we all want to offer our friendship, if you will accept it after such a shaky start.”
“On condition that I do not hurt Constantine?” Hannah asked.
“He has nothing to do with it,” Cassandra said. “He is well able to take care of himself. And we now know that you are not the sort of person who would willfully lead him a dance and humiliate him. If he ends the affair at the end of the Season, or if you do, or if you part by mutual consent, that is entirely a matter between the two of you. But I think I would like you as a friend, Hannah, and Margaret and Katherine feel the same way. If it means anything to you, Vanessa told us just last week that she has always liked you and admired you, that you were altogether too good for Constantine.”
She laughed softly again.
That was going to have to end, that silly quarrel, Hannah thought. The Duke of Moreland had certainly been at fault in the way he had jumped to conclusions about his cousin and best friend and accused him of really quite heinous crimes. But Constantine had been equally at fault in choosing to take offense to such a degree that he did not even try to explain how much he had been misjudged.
Misjudged. That word again.
She had been offered the friendship of three ladies whom she believed she could like very well if given the chance. Perhaps four. The Duchess of Moreland claimed to like and admire her.
And it was, apparently, an unconditional friendship she was being offered.
“We have been discovered,” Cassandra said, and Hannah looked up to see the Earl of Merton and Constantine crossing the lawn toward them. “Angel and devil. It was how I saw them the very first time I set eyes upon them in Hyde Park one afternoon last year. And Stephen really is an angel.”
Hannah’s heart turned over-even though she had seen Constantine in the drawing room just fifteen minutes or so ago. This celibacy was proving to be very hard on the emotions. Not just because she longed to make love with him-though she did-but because the abstinence made her think about their relationship. And she did not like the direction her thoughts were taking.
At least, she did, but…
But what had he been about to say out in the woods this afternoon when he had chosen to remain silent instead? Words had been fairly bursting from him.
As they had from her.
She was going to get dreadfully hurt after all. She should never have believed she could play with fire and not get burned.
Or perhaps she would not get hurt. Perhaps…
“We have come to be congratulated on our win,” the earl called when the men were within earshot. “Which you did not remain to witness.”
“Of course,” Constantine said, “we have been accused by the other side of winning only because we had Miss Leavensworth on our team. But that sounds like sour grapes to me.”
“The other side was my side,” Cassandra said. “I cannot think of any one of my former teammates who is capable of sour grapes, Constantine. And any team that had Miss Leavensworth on it would have an unfair advantage.”
“Well, there you are, Cass,” the earl said. “You are biased. We might as well change the subject before we come to blows.”
He propped one foot on the bench at his wife’s side and draped an arm over his leg. Constantine leaned one shoulder against the trunk beside Hannah and crossed his arms over his chest.
“It is so beautifully silent out here,” the earl said after a few moments.
“Not so,” Constantine said. “If you really listen, Stephen, you will hear wind in the trees, a nightingale singing, laughter from the drawing room, among other sounds. All contributing to a sense of quiet well-being. Hannah taught me that this afternoon when we were strolling in the woods.”
They all listened.
Except Hannah.
He had just called her by name. For the first time.
And here she was, part of a relaxed group, feeling the warmth and acceptance of it. She was not at the center of it, holding court as she usually was in groups. She was part of it.
If she were to let go of the last vestiges of her defenses, she could believe that she was part of a group of two couples.
She clasped her hands rather tightly in her lap. She would not let go. The looming heartache, not to mention heartbreak, would be just too much to bear. The other couple was married. They had a young baby sleeping up in the nursery. When this house party was at an end, they would return to London together. At the end of the spring, they would go home together. Even tonight they would lie in each other’s arms.
“You are perfectly right, Con,” the earl said after several minutes, sounding surprised.
Constantine’s hand came to rest lightly on Hannah’s shoulder.
She felt like weeping.
Or leaping to her feet and dancing in the moonlight.
EVERYONE SEEMED EXCITED next morning at the prospect of the children’s party during the afternoon, even those guests who had no children. After breakfast a few of the men, led by Mr. Park, went out to mark out a cricket pitch not far from the lake. Julianna Bentley and Marianne Astley went with Katherine, who was looking only very slightly pale, to stake their claim to a piece of level land upon which various races would be run. Barbara Leavensworth headed a self-proclaimed committee to plan a treasure hunt. Lawrence Astley and Sir Bradley Bentley offered to test out the boat, which had been repaired and painted last year but never actually rowed out onto the water. Jasper, Lord Montford, took the older children riding to get them out from underfoot. A few of the mothers as well as Stephen and Mr. Finch stayed in the nursery to amuse the younger children.
A total of twenty-two children of various ages from the neighborhood were expected to arrive soon after luncheon. Their parents had been invited too for a picnic tea out on the grass beside the lake.
Hannah was in the kitchen consulting the cook, unnecessarily in Constantine’s estimation. But she was more excited than anyone else. She had positively glowed at breakfast. Her cheeks had been flushed, her eyes bright.
He had been on his way out to look at the boat with Bentley and Astley, but he had been delayed by the arrival of a letter from Harvey Wexford at Ainsley. It had been sent on from London. He might have ignored it until later except for the fact that he had received a report just a few days ago and had not expected another so soon. Curiosity got the better of him and he stayed on the terrace to read it.
Hannah found him there when she came through the drawing room and out through the French windows on her way to check on the others at the lake.
Constantine smiled at her and folded the letter.
“Your cook has everything under control?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said. “I was made to feel very welcome as a guest provided I did not step too far into her domain and get in the way.”
She laughed and looked at him, and from him to the bustle of activity farther from the house. She glanced at his letter.
“Is anything wrong?” she asked.
“No, nothing.” He smiled again.
She sat on the seat beside his.
“Constantine,” she said, “what is wrong? I absolutely insist upon knowing.”
“Do you, Duchess?” he said, narrowing his eyes upon her. She sat there waiting.
“There can be no relationship like this,” she said at last.
“Is there a relationship?” he asked. “We sleep together, Duchess. We take pleasure of each other. That hardly qualifies as a relationship.”
She stared blankly at him for a long moment.
“We slept together,” she said at last. “We took pleasure of each other. Past tense, Constantine.”
And she got to her feet and walked away in the direction of the lake without another word or a backward glance.
It was ingrained in him, was it not? This deep need to protect himself from harm by turning deeply inward. The knowledge had been there for as far back as he could remember that he was inadequate. He had left his mother’s womb too soon, two weeks earlier than expected, two days before his father could both acquire a special license and marry her. His mother had complained to him, perhaps believing that he was too young to understand, that her yearly pregnancies and her yearly miscarriages or stillbirths would have been unnecessary if he had only waited to be born at the right time. His father had complained to him, even when it must have been perfectly obvious to him that his son was old enough to understand, that his wife’s failures would not have been so tiresome if he had waited a few days to be born legitimate. Even his good health had been an inadequacy. It had accused his parents in their efforts to produce another, healthy, legitimate son and heir.
And Jon, whom Constantine had hated because he could have done so much better a job of it had he become Earl of Merton on the death of their father. And his agonized love for Jon. The guilt of feeling hatred when he had wanted only to love. When he had only loved.
And then the need to protect Jon’s grand scheme for Ainsley, to make sure that nothing and no one stopped him just because he was an imbecile in the eyes of the world. And the refusal to let even Elliott in on the secret because Elliott, surprised by the suddenness with which he had succeeded to his own title and responsibilities, would surely have chosen to protect Jon from himself.
And Elliott’s terrible betrayal, lashing out with accusations instead of simply asking questions.
Would Constantine have answered the questions truthfully even if they had been asked, though? Perhaps not. Probably not, for Elliott would still have felt it his duty to put a stop to what Jon wanted done. Elliott would have felt it necessary to protect the estate intact. It was what guardians did. It was not that Elliott did not have a heart, but after his father’s sudden death, that heart had become subordinate to duty. At least at that time it had. He seemed to have rediscovered his heart since marrying Vanessa, but the damage had been done by then. Jon was dead, and a lifelong friendship had been ruined beyond repair.
And so secretiveness, hiding within himself, had become part of Constantine’s nature. And now he had been cruel to someone who did not deserve his cruelty.
Good God, he loved her!
A fine way he had of showing it. Was cruelty, coldness, part of his nature too? Was he that much like his father?
He got to his feet to go after her. But he had not noticed that she had doubled back. She came and stood in front of him.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“We do not just sleep together,” she said. “We do not just take pleasure from each other. There is more than that, whether you admit it or not. I will not put a name to it. I am not sure I can. But there is more, Constantine, and I cannot bear to be shut out of your deepest pain. You know mine. Or, if I have never been quite specific about it, this is it. I grew up hating my beauty because it set me at a distance from people I wanted simply to love. My sister was jealous of me, though I tried and tried not to give her cause, and finally she hurt me terribly perhaps because I had hurt her. Perhaps she had always loved Colin. Or perhaps she loved him only because I did and I got him. My father was caught in the middle and did not know how to cope after my mother died, and he ended up letting me down dreadfully, taking Dawn’s side when it ought to have been obvious to him that she had behaved badly, that my heart was breaking. Oh, very well, maybe not one of them, even Colin, was an out-and-out villain. Maybe they all felt justified in what they did and said. Who knows? But they ought to have known that I had feelings, that I could be hurt as deeply as the ugliest girl on earth, that beauty is no buffer against pain and loss. Thank God-and I do not blaspheme-thank God for Barbara, who knew me and loved me all my life, and for the duke, who saw through my outer looks to the broken, frightened child who was disturbing his peace in that room by weeping noisily and without dignity.”
“Duchess,” he said.
“He taught me to rescue and nurture and strengthen that broken person within,” she said, “so that she could be strong again. He enabled me to love myself again, without vanity, but with acceptance of who I was behind the appearance that has always attracted so many in such a very superficial way. He taught me that I could love again-I loved him-and that I could trust love-I trusted his. He left me still a little fragile but ready to test my wings. That was my pain, Constantine. It still is my pain. I hover a little uncertainly behind the invulnerable armor of the Duchess of Dunbarton.”
He swallowed against a gurgle in his throat.
“Jon’s dream is threatening to turn to nightmare,” he said. He held up the letter, which was still in his hand. “Jess Barnes, one of the mentally handicapped workers at Ainsley, left the door of the chicken coop unlatched one night and a fox got in and made off with a dozen or so chickens. My manager claims not to have scolded him too severely-Jess tries so very hard to please and he is one of the hardest workers on the farm. But Wexford told him that I would be disappointed in him. Jess went out the next night and helped himself to fourteen chickens from my closest neighbor’s coop. And now he is languishing in jail even though the chickens have been returned unharmed and paid for, and Jess has made a tearful apology. That particular neighbor has disapproved of me and my project ever since it began. He never loses a chance to complain. Now he has all the evidence he needs that it is a reckless project, doomed to failure.”
She took the letter from his hand and set it down on the table before taking both his hands in hers. He had not realized how cold his were until he felt the warmth of hers.
“What will happen to the poor boy?” she asked.
“The poor boy is forty years old or thereabouts,” he said. “Wexford will sort it out. It is clear that Jess did not intend to steal but only to please me by putting right his mistake. And Kincaid has been more than adequately recompensed, though I cannot blame him for being angry. It has always been the worst fear of my neighbors that they are not safe with so many unsavory characters living close to them. I just hate the thought of poor Jess in jail, though, and not quite understanding why he is there. I had better go down to Ainsley next week, after we go back to London.”
“Do you want to go today?” she asked.
He looked into her eyes. “There would be too many questions to answer here,” he said. “And I want to spend the rest of today here with you even if you do insist that we abstain from… pleasure.”
He grinned at her.
She did not smile back.
“Thank you, Constantine,” she said. “Thank you for telling me.”
And good God, devil take it, he felt tears welling into his eyes. He drew his hands from hers hastily and turned to pick up Wexford’s letter. He hoped she had not seen. That was what happened when one let go a little and confided in someone else.
He ought not to have burdened her with his problems. She was preparing for a party.
“I love you,” she said.
He turned his head sharply, tears notwithstanding, and gazed at her, startled.
“I do,” she said softly. “You need not feel threatened by it. Love does not deck the beloved in chains. It just is.”
And she turned about and strode across the lawn again. This time she did not turn back.
Devil take it!
Idiot that he was, he felt frightened. Now wouldn’t the ton be fascinated to know that the devil himself was frightened by love? Though perhaps it made theological sense, he thought with wry humor.
I love you, Con. I love you more than anyone else in the whole wide world. I love you forever and ever. Amen.
That had been Jon, on the night of his sixteenth birthday.
The following morning he had been dead.
I love you, Hannah had just told him.
He closed his eyes. Pray God Wexford had got Jess safely out of jail by now. And it was a prayer. The first one in a long, long while.
THE CHILDREN’S PARTY was long and chaotic and excruciatingly noisy. The children all enjoyed themselves enormously, with the possible exception of Cassandra’s baby and another babe in arms, who both slept through most of the proceedings as though nothing very special was happening at all.
The adults were looking a little the worse for wear by the time all the neighbors had rounded up their offspring and herded them off back home and the house guests had picked up all the play equipment and debris and trudged back to the house with the remaining children.
“One always knows a children’s party has been a vast success,” Mrs. Finch said, “when one is so exhausted afterward that even putting one foot before the other takes a conscious effort. Your party has been one of the best, Your Grace.”
Everyone laughed-rather wearily-and agreed.
Hannah was feeling happy and proud of herself as she dressed for dinner an hour or so later. She had involved herself with the children all afternoon rather than standing back, as she might have done, playing the part of gracious hostess. She had even run a three-legged race with a ten-year-old girl who had shrieked the whole length of the course, leaving Hannah feeling slightly deaf in one ear as well as sore in all sorts of places from their numerous falls.
She was feeling happy.
She had told Constantine that she loved him, and she was not sorry. She did love him, and it had needed to be said. She expected nothing in return-at least, so she persuaded herself. But too many things were left unsaid in life, and their unsaying could make the whole difference to the rest of life.
She had told him she loved him.
They had scarcely spoken to each other all afternoon. It was not that they had avoided each other. But they had both been involved in playing with the children and conversing with the neighbors, and their paths had hardly crossed.
Of course, she had made no great effort to see to it that they did cross. She felt embarrassed, truth be told. She knew he would not laugh at her for telling him such a thing, but…
What if he did?
She was not going to brood. There was one whole evening of her house party left, and though everyone would undoubtedly be tired, they would also enjoy relaxing together in the drawing room, she believed. She was looking forward to relaxing with them.
And she believed she had female friends who would remain friends after they had all returned to London. Friends in addition to Barbara, that was. She had felt the friendships this afternoon-Cassandra and her two sisters-in-law, even Mrs. Park and Mrs. Finch. Both Lady Montford and the Countess of Sheringford had found a moment in which to invite her to call them by their given names. Katherine and Margaret.
If only she could find the courage to be her inner self as well as the Duchess of Dunbarton in London.
Life was complicated. And exciting. And uncertain. And…
Well, and definitely worth living.
“That will do nicely, Adele,” she said, turning her head from side to side so that she could see her hair in the mirror. It was prettily piled and curled without being overelaborate.
She wore a gown of deep rose pink. She had intended to wear no jewelry, but the low neckline was too bare without anything. A single diamond pendant-a real diamond-hung from a silver chain. And on her left hand she wore the most precious of her rings, her wedding present, along with her wedding ring.
“That will be all, thank you,” she said, and she gazed at her image for a while after her maid had left the room. She tried, as she occasionally did, to see herself as others saw her. In London, of course, she always made sure that other people saw her a certain way. But here? She had felt friendship here during the past few days. Apart from the fact that she was the hostess, she had felt as if no one viewed her as being any more special than any of the other ladies.
Was it her clothing? She had not worn white even once. Or her hair? It was more formally dressed tonight than at any time since she had come into the country, but even now it was not as elaborate as she wore it in town. Or her relative lack of jewelry?
Or was it something else? Had her guests seen during the past few days what she was seeing now? Simply herself?
Was she able to inspire love, or at least liking and respect, as herself?
She was not the only beautiful woman in the world, after all. Even here. Cassandra and her sisters-in-law were all strikingly good-looking. Mrs. Finch was pretty. So were Marianne Astley and Julianna Bentley. Barbara was lovely.
Hannah sighed and got to her feet. She was so glad there had been this house party. She had enjoyed it more than she could remember enjoying anything for a long while. And there was this evening left. Tomorrow she would be back in London. She and Constantine would be able to spend the night together. Unless, that was, he felt it necessary to hurry down to Ainsley Park to see that all was well with his farm hand.
She hoped for the sake of both him and Constantine that that situation would resolve itself soon.
“TOMORROW NIGHT,” he said, gazing up at stars too numerous to count. “My carriage at eleven o’clock. At my house by quarter past-not one second later. And in my bed at twenty past. Not to sleep. Be prepared for an orgy to end orgies.”
She laughed softly, her head on his arm.
They were lying on the bank of the lake. Everyone was pleasantly weary after the children’s party and picnic and quite content to sit about the drawing room after dinner, conversing or listening to whoever had the ambition to play the pianoforte or sing. Four people were playing cards. The duchess had clearly felt no qualms about leaving her guests to their own devices when Constantine invited her to step outside with him. Indeed some of his cousins had actually smiled indulgently from one to the other of them.
His female cousins and Cassandra were actually calling her Hannah, he had noticed during the day.
“You must not expect to hear any argument from me,” she said now. “But having made such a boast, Constantine, you must live up to expectations. I insist upon it.”
“I’ll be going down to Ainsley the next morning,” he said. “I must go. Everything is probably settled happily by now, but I must go in person to smooth things over with Kincaid and the other neighbors. And to thank Wexford for handling the matter on my behalf. And to assure Jess that I am certainly not disappointed in him. I may not see you for a week or more.”
“That will be tiresome,” she said. “But I daresay I shall survive, you know. And I daresay you will too. You must go.”
Suddenly the end of the Season seemed not very far off at all. Indeed, if it were not for his affair with the duchess, he would probably decide that it was not worth coming back to London this year. But he could not contemplate putting an end to their affair quite yet. And perhaps…
Well, he would think of that some other time.
She had told him this morning that she loved him. What exactly had she meant by that? It was not a question he could ask aloud, though he would dearly like to know the answer.
“In the meantime…” He slid his arm from beneath her head, raised himself onto one elbow, and looked down at her. “Tomorrow night seems a long way away.”
He bent his head and kissed her-a lazy exploration, first with his lips, then with his tongue deep inside her mouth.
“It does,” she agreed with a sigh when he raised his head again.
He rubbed his nose back and forth across hers.
“I will respect your wishes, Duchess,” he said, “even though your guests probably have their own idea of what is going on between us out here. Let me love you without dishonoring those wishes.”
“How?” She reached up one hand and set her forefinger along his slightly crooked nose.
“No penetration,” he said. “I promise.”
“And so respectability will be preserved,” she said. “Everything but penetration, and our guests believing the worst. It is the story of my life.”
He rose up onto his knees and straddled her body. He slid her gown off her shoulders and beneath her breasts and smoothed his hands over her, fondled her, rolled her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, lowered his head to suckle them one at a time, and kissed her mouth again, his fingers tangling in her hair, his tongue sucked deep and then luring hers into his mouth to be suckled in its turn.
Her hands pressed over his back, under his shirt, down inside his drawers.
She was hot with passion.
He was throbbing with need.
Not a good idea after all. And what the devil difference would it make if he entered her and rode to completion with her? It was what they both wanted. It was what they had both lived without for far too many days and nights.
He moved to one side of her, his mouth still on hers, and slid a hand beneath her skirt, up over the smoothness of her silk stockings, along the heated flesh of her inner thighs and up…
“No.”
Surprisingly, the voice was his own.
He withdrew his hand, lowered her skirt, and raised his head.
“Damn you, Constantine,” she half shocked him by saying. “And thank you.”
And she wrapped her arms about his neck and drew his head back to her own. She kissed him softly and warmly. He could feel her heart thudding in her bosom, the heat of her arousal, the determined effort she was making to return their embrace within the bounds of decorum.
“Thank you,” she said again a minute or two later, hugging him close. “Thank you, Constantine. I am not sure I would have been able to resist. You are so gorgeous. I was perfectly right about you from the start.”
Did that mean he might have…?
He was glad he had not.
But dash it all, he deserved some sort of medal of honor.
There was probably not a person in the drawing room who did not believe he was enjoying everything there was to enjoy with her.
She had a strange-and touchingly wonderful-sense of honor.
They strolled arm in arm back to the house, and he remembered again the words she had spoken this morning-and not since. Because he had not said them back to her? Could he? Would he?
They were the most dangerous words in the English language when strung together. They were so completely irrevocable.
He would have to think about saying them.
Perhaps tomorrow night.
Or when he returned from Ainsley.
Or never.
Coward.
Or wise man.
“I will have to go up to my bedchamber before returning to the drawing room and ordering the tea tray brought up,” she said. “I probably have grass clinging to my person from head to toe. My hair surely looks like a bird’s nest. I must look thoroughly tumbled.”
“I wish you were,” he said with a loud sigh.
She laughed.
“Tomorrow night,” she said. “And the promised orgy.”
He escorted her upstairs to her room and went along to his to comb his hair and make sure that he did not look as if he had been rolling in a haystack somewhere.
HANNAH SHOOK OUT her dress, adjusted it at the bosom, washed her hands, and repaired her hair as well as she could without taking it all down, and peered dubiously into the mirror above her dressing table. Were her cheeks as flushed as she thought they were? And her eyes as bright?
Ignominiously, she wished he had not kept his promise outside. That way she could have enjoyed all the pleasure without assuming any of the guilt. She could even have scolded him afterward.
But really that was an ignominious way to think. She was very glad-very glad indeed-that he had kept the promise.
Oh, how she loved him!
She hurried across her dressing room and reached out a hand to open the door. Someone rapped on the other side before she could do so and opened it without waiting.
Ah, impatient man!
She smiled before two things registered on her mind. Constantine was as pale as a ghost. And he had changed during the minutes since he had left her outside the door. He was dressed for travel in a long cloak and top-boots. He held a tall hat in one hand.
“I must ask a favor of you, Duchess,” he said, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. “I did not bring my own carriage. I came here with Stephen and Cassandra. I must beg the loan of a horse-Jet, if I may, to get me back to London. I’ll get my own carriage there and proceed on my way.”
“To Gloucestershire?” she said. “Already? Now?”
Foolishly, all she could think of was that he did not want the promised orgy of lovemaking after all.
“There was another letter waiting in my room,” he said. “They are going to hang him.”
“Wh-a-a-t?” She gaped at him.
“For theft. As an example to other would-be thieves,” he said. “I have to go.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked him.
“Save him,” he said. “Talk sanity into someone. Good God, Hannah, I do not know what I am going to do. I have to go. May I take Jet?”
His eyes were black and wild as he raked the fingers of one hand through his hair.
“I’ll go with you,” she said.
“You most certainly will not,” he said. “A horse?”
“The carriage,” she said, and she opened the door again and swept out of the room ahead of him. “I’ll give the orders. Take my carriage and go directly to Ainsley Park. It will save you at least half a day.”
She went out to the stable and carriage house herself, as if her physical presence could hasten him on his way. Horses and carriage were readied with great speed, though it seemed agonizingly slow to Hannah, and to Constantine, who paced, like a caged animal.
She took his hands in hers again when she saw that the carriage was almost ready, and the coachman was hurrying up, dressed in his livery.
But she could not think of anything to say. What did one say under such circumstances?
Have a safe journey?
I hope you get there in time?
But in time for what?
I hope you can talk them out of hanging poor Jess.
You probably will not be able to.
She drew his hands to her face and held them to her cheeks. She turned her head and kissed his palms one at a time. Her throat was sore, but she would not shed tears.
She looked up at him. He stared blankly back. She was not even sure he saw her.
“I love you,” she whispered.
His eyes focused on her.
“Hannah,” he said.
Her name again. It was almost like a declaration of love. Not that she was consciously thinking of such trivialities.
He turned and climbed into the carriage and shut the door behind him, and within moments the carriage was on its way.
Hannah raised a hand, but he did not look out.
HIS PRESENCE at Ainsley would achieve nothing, Hannah thought with a great sinking of the heart as she watched her carriage disappear at some speed down the straight driveway.
That poor man was going to hang for theft. And Constantine would never forgive himself for taking him in to live at Ainsley and then somehow failing to keep him safe from harm. This was something from which he would never ever recover even though, of course, it was all none of his fault.
There must be a way of saving Jess Barnes. He had taken fourteen chickens from the coop of a neighbor and then returned them and apologized. Constantine’s manager had paid the value of the chickens even though they had been returned. And for all that a man was to lose his life-as an example to others.
The judicial system was sometimes capable of asinine and terrifying madness.
An old adage leapt to her mind: “One might as well hang for a sheep as a lamb.” But one could hang for either. Or for a few chickens.
Someone must be able to help. Someone with influence. Constantine, despite his lineage, was a mere commoner. There must be…
She looked toward the house and then hurried toward it, holding her skirt up out of the way, half running. And it would have been quicker, she thought as she ran up the steps beneath the pillared portico and through the front doors, to have gone around to the side and into the drawing room through the French windows.
Good heavens, it must be very late indeed. Everyone would wonder where she was, where the tea tray was. Everyone was tired.
Everyone was still in the drawing room, she saw when she hurried into it after a footman had darted ahead of her to open the doors. They all turned to look inquiringly at her. Belatedly she realized that she must look flushed and disheveled-again. A few of those who were seated got to their feet. Barbara came hurrying toward her.
“Hannah?” she said. “Is something wrong? We heard a carriage.”
She took Hannah’s hands, and Hannah squeezed them tightly. Her eyes found the Earl of Merton.
“Lord Merton,” she said. “A private word with you, please. Oh, please. And please hurry.”
It was fortunate that there was a chair directly behind her. She collapsed onto it, her hands sliding from Barbara’s as she did so. She was shaking uncontrollably. Her teeth were chattering. Her thoughts were racing about inside her head. She was, she realized in some dismay, going all to pieces.
And then the Earl of Merton was on one knee before her, and her hands were in his very steady ones.
“Your Grace,” he said, “tell me what it is. Is it Con? Has he met with some accident?”
“He has g-g-gone,” she said. She closed her eyes briefly, imposing some control over herself. “I am so sorry you have not all had tea yet. Will you order the tray, Babs, please? But may I talk to you outside, Lord Merton?” She tightened her hands about the earl’s.
No one moved.
“Hannah,” Barbara said, “tell us what has happened. We are all concerned. Did you quarrel with Mr. Huxtable? But no, it is more than that.”
The earl’s hands were still warm and steady. Hannah looked into his blue eyes.
“How may I be of service to you?” he asked her.
He did not know. None of them did. Oh, foolish Constantine, to have been so secretive all these years.
It was not her secret to divulge.
But the time for secrets had passed.
“He has gone to Ainsley Park,” she said, “his home in Gloucestershire. And home to a large number of unwed mothers and handicapped persons and reformed criminals and others rejected by society. One of the handicapped-I think he must be a little like Constantine’s brother-let the fox in with the chickens and tried to compensate for the loss so that Constantine would not be disappointed in him, by taking chickens from a neighbor to replace them. He returned the chickens and apologized, and the manager of the project paid for the chickens in addition, but even so poor Jess has been sentenced to hang.”
She gasped for breath. She was not sure she had paused for one during her explanation.
There were other gasps in the room. A few of the ladies clapped hands to their mouths and closed their eyes. Hannah was not aware of much, though, beyond the intent eyes of the Earl of Merton.
“So that is what Constantine has been doing in Gloucestershire,” Lady Sheringford half whispered.
Hannah leaned a little closer to the earl.
“He took my carriage,” she said. “He thinks he can save that poor man, but he probably will not be able to. Will you let me take your carriage? And will you escort me to London?”
“I’ll go myself to Ainsley Park if I can discover where in Gloucestershire it is,” he said. “I’ll do all in my power-”
“I thought the Duke of Moreland…” she said.
“Elliott?” He searched her eyes with his own.
“Oh,” she said, and the sound came out as a near wail. “I wish my duke were still alive. He would save Jess with one look in the right direction. But he is dead. The Duke of Moreland’s word will count for a great deal.”
“Elliott and Con have been bitter enemies since before I knew either,” he said.
“That is because Constantine was selling the Merton jewels to finance the project at his brother’s behest,” she said. “It was all his brother’s idea, though he embraced it wholeheartedly himself. But the Duke of Moreland accused him of robbing his own brother and even of debauching the poor unwed mothers in the neighborhood, and Constantine would not contradict him, partly because he feared the duke would put an end to his brother’s dream, and largely because of pride. The duke accused instead of asking.”
She watched him draw in a deep breath, hold it, and then release it slowly.
“I am not sure Elliott will be willing to help, Your Grace,” he said. “Let me-”
But Lady Sheringford was on her feet and approaching across the room.
“Of course he will help, Stephen,” she said briskly. “Of course he will. He would not have remained angry with Constantine all these years if he did not care deeply for him. And if he even hesitates, Nessie will talk him into helping. She will be easy to persuade. She always likes to think the best of people. I have suspected for years that she would forgive Constantine in a heartbeat if he would only ask her forgiveness for whatever it was he did to hurt her.”
“I must go,” Hannah said, getting to her feet and withdrawing her hands from the earl’s clasp. “Even now it may be too late.” She slapped her hands to her cheeks. “But I have a houseful of guests.”
Suddenly everything was taken out of her hands. The guests would all go, both to London and to Ainsley Park, if they followed mere inclination, someone declared-perhaps Lord Montford. But they could do nothing but get in the way. They would remain, then, and Stephen would go with her grace. Everything at Copeland ran so smoothly because of the duchess’s careful planning, the Countess of Sheringford said, that her presence was not strictly necessary until they all left tomorrow morning. And Miss Leavensworth had been a perfect substitute hostess at tea yesterday and would be again at breakfast tomorrow. It would be a delight to have Miss Leavensworth return to town tomorrow in their carriage, Lady Montford said. Which was an extremely generous offer, Mrs. Newcombe declared, as of course they would gladly have taken Barbara with them, but she would have been severely cramped, poor dear, in the carriage with them and the twins. Of course Hannah could leave without any worries at all, Barbara added. She must go.
And Mr. Newcombe knew just where Ainsley Park was situated. Although he had never been there, it was no farther than twenty miles from his own home. He had even heard some good things about the training school there. He had not realized that the owner and Mr. Huxtable, his fellow guest here, were one and the same. If he had, he would have enjoyed a good heart-to-heart chat with him on the subject.
Cassandra had hurried from the room. She was going to come too and had gone to prepare the nurse and the baby for an imminent departure.
“Come, Hannah,” Barbara said, quiet and efficient in her usual way. “You must change your clothes and have a bag packed. I will see to everything else.”
Lord Sheringford had gone to order up the Merton carriage.
An hour later Hannah was on the way to London. The Earl of Merton sat opposite her with Cassandra. He was holding the baby, who was fast asleep. Apparently Cassandra had fed him before leaving.
Where was Constantine now? How far had he gone?
Would he be in time?
Would it matter even if he were?
Would the Duke of Moreland go?
Would he be in time?
Would his influence be powerful enough to stop the madness of hanging a mentally handicapped man whose only crime was trying to put right a wrong that had happened because of his carelessness?
If only her duke were still alive. No one would have stood against him. She had never known anyone with more power than the elderly Duke of Dunbarton. Except the king, perhaps.
The king.
The king.
Hannah pressed herself back into the corner of her seat and closed her eyes tightly.
Could she?
Could she? She was the Duchess of Dunbarton, was she not?