The earl of Chase read of her mother’s death before she could write to him of it, and he informed her through his secretary, Mr. Crittaker, that she was to pack her things and be ready for the carriage that would bring her to Chase Park. She was to bring Badger along for protection. He gave her two weeks to comply with his wishes.
The two weeks came and passed. No one came to fetch her. She didn’t know what to do. She stood by the window of the small parlor and waited. She wondered if she should write to her father and remind him of his instruction to her, but no, she couldn’t bring herself to do that. It was too humiliating. She would wait. Four more days passed. And she thought: He grieves for my mother and he no longer wants me. He has forgotten me. I’m alone now. What will I do?
Then she realized that she’d always dreaded going to Chase Park on her yearly jaunts. Just stepping into that impossibly grand Italianate entrance hall with all its half-millennium-old dark wainscoting and equally old paintings with their heavy gold-encrusted frames, and that huge, utterly overpowering central staircase with still more ancestral paintings climbing the wall along it made her freeze inside and gave her stomach cramps. She had walked through the great oak doors every year and immediately begun to count down the fourteen days she had to remain there, to pretend as though all these noble people and all the children of these noble people and all these servants of the noble people liked her and truly welcomed her, when they all wished she had never been conceived.
At least this year the countess of Chase hadn’t been there to shrivel her into herself with her cold looks and the bitter disdain that radiated from her like a living thing. The countess had died just the week before, and the mansion was draped with black crepe and every female wore black gowns, and all the males wore black arm bands. She’d heard the servants whisper that the countess had been too old for childbearing and look what had come of it—the poor dear had died, cursing her husband, for he had forced her this final and last time, forced himself upon her until she conceived—at least that’s what all the serv
ants believed—forced her and forced her and look what had come of it. And, after all, she had managed to provide the earl with two healthy boys and twin girls, and it wasn’t her fault that both boys had drowned in that boat race and left only the Twins. All waited for the earl to take a new wife, a very young new wife who would breed a child every year until the earl was satisfied that no matter how many accidents occurred there would still be a boy left to succeed to the title and all the Wyndham lands. A man need only wait six months and it was past that time now. That’s what she’d heard and then she’d repeated to Mr. Jollis, the miserable creature.
She frowned. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t want her now at Chase Park. He’d found his next countess and he didn’t want to have his bastard there with his new wife. Yes, that was it. He naturally wanted to please a new wife and bringing a bastard into her new home and parading the bastard under her nose wouldn’t accomplish pleasure, much less bring any harmony to the new union. But why didn’t he simply write and tell her? She believed her father to be many things, but never a coward. It made no sense.
It began to rain, now just a drizzle, but the Duchess knew the signs. Before long, the drizzle would become sheets of slamming slate-gray water, driven against the windows by a fierce wind blowing off the Channel.
Even though he had deserted her now, she had to admit that her father had supported her mother and her for eighteen years, and her mother two years before she’d been born even. She had been like his wife, only, of course, she wasn’t, she was just his mistress, with no legal rights, no recourse, nothing. But now that her mother was dead, she supposed she might as well be dead too, for he no longer felt any responsibility toward her, no longer had to pretend liking toward her. He’d probably decided that since she was eighteen, it was now her responsibility to see to herself. But why had he bothered to lie to her? Why had he told her that she was coming to Chase Park? It had been a lie, but why, she couldn’t begin to imagine. All she knew was that she was utterly alone. Mama had no one, as far as she knew, at least there were never any letters, never any presents at Christmas from relatives of her mother’s. She assumed they were Cochranes, surely that was her mother’s name after all and not some tawdry made-up name. No, there couldn’t be any brothers or sisters or aunts. It had always been just the two of them and the frequent visits from the earl.
The rain cascaded against the window. She wondered what she would do. Her mother’s solicitor had told her in that sniggering way of his, for he knew well that her mother wasn’t the widow she always pretended she was, but a nobleman’s mistress, kept in this little love nest of a cottage, that the love nest was leased, the bills paid by the earl’s man of business in London, and that the lease was ended by the fifteenth of the next month. The way he’d treated her made her feel dirty, but more than dirty, she’d felt incredible anger. He all but told her that she was no better than her mother, and pray, what was wrong with her loving, beautiful mother? But she knew the answer to that, she simply shied away from it as she always did. At least she hadn’t allowed him to make his insulting offer of another love nest, this one paid for by him.
She rose slowly, shivering in the sudden damp chill of the late afternoon. The fire was dying down. It was growing colder by the minute. She rose, carefully placed more logs on the fire, then began to pace the small room, lightly slapping her hands against her arms for warmth. She knew she had to do something, but what? She had no skills at governessing or being an old lady’s companion or even creating a stylish bonnet. She’d been raised as a gentlewoman, thus her only talents lay in her ability to please a man, all with the goal of finding a husband who would overlook her unfortunate antecedents.
She paced and paced, feeling infinitely bitter, then wanting to cry, for her mother was dead, her beautiful mother who had loved the earl probably more than she had loved her daughter, loved him even more than she’d hated the position in which he’d placed her.
Mr. Jollis had bragged how he knew society better than she. Her eyes narrowed now at that impertinence. She’d poured over the London Times and the Gazette since the age of ten, devouring all the goings-on of society, laughing at their seemingly endless foibles and acts of idiocy, their disregard of the most minimal restraints. Yes, she knew society and their ways, and as she thought about it, she realized that she did have one talent, but she’d never really considered it as a way to earn a living—she’d never had to.
She stopped in her tracks, staring unseeing at the thick slabs of rain pounding against the drawing room window. Yes, she had a talent, an unusual talent, certainly a talent never recognized as being possible in a female. Was it possible? She would have to discuss it with Badger. If there was a way to make money at it, why then, he would know how it would be done.
As she walked up the charming but narrow stairway upstairs to her bedchamber, she smiled for the first time since her mother’s death.
2
CHASE PARK NEAR DARLINGTON, YORKSHIRE
MARCH 1813
MR. CRITTAKER DIDN’T like what he was about to do, but he had no choice, none at all. He was markedly pale, his breathing shallow. He raised his hand, paused a moment as he thought of possible disastrous consequences, got a grip on himself, and finally knocked on the library door. It was late, very late, and Mr. Crittaker knew that this was a gross imposition on his lordship, but he had to tell him what he’d done, or more to the point, what he’d forgotten to do.
There was no answer. Mr. Crittaker knocked again, louder this time.
Finally, an irritated voice called out, “All right, come in before you bruise your damned knuckles.”
The earl of Chase was standing in front of the pink-veined Carrara marble fireplace that was the showpiece of the Wyndham library, despite the three walls of bookcases that went up some twenty-two feet and held more than ten thousand tomes. It was a beautiful room, not overly large so that one’s voice echoed, but still overwhelming in its dark magnificence. Mr. Crittaker looked toward the desk that backed against the one wall that held a huge set of glass doors. There was a lit candle on the desk, but the chair was empty. He saw the earl standing in front of the fireplace. He appeared to be doing naught of anything, save standing there warming himself. Still, it was near to midnight.
“What is it, Crittaker? Didn’t you work me enough all day? I had to scrub to get all the damned ink off my fingers from signing those interminable papers. Well, man, speak up. What new crisis besets me now?”
“My lord,” Mr. Crittaker began, not really knowing how to confess his sin, not really knowing if the earl would merely chastise him verbally or boot him out into the March snowstorm. He cleared his throat and began again. This time, he simply blurted it out. “My lord, by all that’s holy, I forgot Miss Cochrane!”
The earl just stared at him, obviously at a loss. He said finally, slowly, “Miss Cochrane?”
“Yes, my lord. Miss Cochrane.”
“Who is Miss Cochrane?”
“The Duchess, my lord. I forgot her, sir. Her mother died and, well, then your uncle died, and I, well, in all the preparation for your arrival, I, ah, forgot her.”
The VIII earl of Chase continued to stare at his now-dead uncle’s secretary, now his. “You forgot the Duchess? Her mother died? When, man? My God, how long ago was this?” Then he waved Mr. Crittaker to a seat. “Come here and tell me the entire story and don’t leave out any details.”
Mr. Crittaker, heartened that he mightn’t be cast out into the frigid night by the easiness of the earl’s deep voice, came forward and said, “Your uncle’s, er—”
“His mistress,” the earl said sharply. “His twenty-year mistress. Yes, what about his mistress?”