“Your aunt Wilhelmina has two sons, my lord. Were you to die with no issue, the eldest son, Trevor Wyndham, would inherit the earldom.”
“Trevor? Good God, that name is as absurd as hers. Trevor. Is he effete, Mr. Wicks? Does he mince and waggle his fingers, wear patches on his cheeks? Does he chatter and giggle? Does he pad his calves to make them fill out his trousers? Does he have buckram wadding in his shoulders to make him manly enough? By God, Trevor!”
“I truly don’t know the character of your aunt Wilhelmina’s offspring.”
The earl cursed, but there was little heat in it. Then, very slowly, he smiled. “No matter. Let a fop be the next earl. Let him mince about in the House of Lords. Perhaps he’s even a pederast. If he is, I shall have a painting commissioned of him and I will place it next to my uncle’s. The two of them can visit each other for all eternity. And I, well, I shall have two hundred pounds a quarter. Fancy that—I will be rich. These past ten months of playing a role that didn’t at all suit my character will soon be forgotten. Count on it, Mr. Wicks. This precious earldom is already becoming a faint echo in my mind.”
He strode then from the library, not looking back, still laughing that raw black laughter.
Mr. Wicks looked down at her, shaking his head. “I had not expected such excess, such vehemence, such a lack of measure.”
“Marcus always spoke his mind when he was a boy,” she said, her voice dull in its acceptance. “I have just never heard him speak it as an adult. He’s gained fluency and tenacity. He’s gained more range. It was something I always admired in him. Of course, Marcus always belonged, he was a true Wyndham even though he refuses to accept that he was. He could be angry, outrageous in his behavior or just plain sullen if the mood struck him.” Yes, he’d always belonged until her father had done him in.
She saw that Mr. Wicks was quite distressed, shaking his head, mumbling, “I still cannot believe his insults to you. You have never harmed him. Indeed, you wished to set everything aright. He didn’t even give you a chance to speak. You would have accepted him, wouldn’t you, Duchess?”
“Yes, I would have accepted him, but he was very angry, Mr. Wicks. He wasn’t ready to listen to any acceptance even if I’d shouted it in his face.”
“I do not like anger, it leads to unfortunate conclusions, usually conclusions not wished by either party.” He shook his head. “To insult you as if you weren’t a proper lady, as if you were—”
“Still a bastard?”
“You’re being purposefully obtuse,” Mr. Wicks said sharply, and she saw that he was really quite pained on her behalf. She tried to smile, but it was a pitiful effort.
“What he said to you wasn’t what a gentleman would ever utter, it was ugly and utterly unjust—”
She just shook her head, saying nothing, just shaking her head slowly, back and forth. “It doesn’t matter,” she said finally. “Truly, sir, you are kind to be upset for me, but it doesn’t matter.”
“But there is so much at stake here. Surely he will see things differently in the morning.”
But he didn’t.
In the morning, the VIII earl of Chase was gone.
His valet, Spears, was also gone.
WYNDHAM TOWNHOUSE, BERKELEY SQUARE, LONDON
MAY 1814
She smiled as she opened the window wider, leaning out so she could better hear. She saw them then, three soldiers, slightly drunk, singing at the top of their lungs, their arms entwined around each other, probably to keep themselves upright. The ditty was about Napoleon, upon his abdication.
“He bid a fond adieu to all his old Guard.
They cried and moaned, like pigs swilling lard.
But at last he’s gone, dragged off Elba way,
To molder like hay from December to May.”
It was a catchy tune, she thought, still smiling, even sung off-key. The rhyme wasn’t all that remarkable, but it fit in with the melody just fine. They reached the chorus now and their voices became louder and merrier.
“And it’s hidey ho, off ye go, to Elba where ye’ll stay.
It’s up with the anchor to sail ye away, far away
To Elba where ye’ll die and rot, forever and a day.”
To her absolute delight, they no sooner finished that ditty than they broke into another, this one about Wellington upon receiving word that Napoleon had abdicated. The two were meant to go together, surely.