WYNDHAM TOWNHOUSE, BERKELEY SQUARE
LATE JUNE 1814
BADGER STOOD IN the doorway of the drawing room, saying nothing, merely looking at her. She was writing and humming as she wrote, quicker and quicker, which meant that it was coming easily now. A blessing, he thought, for she’d been so silent, so very withdrawn, damnation, so very broken, since their return from Paris some weeks before.
He waited patiently, grateful that she had something important to her to give her thoughts another direction. She looked up, jumped slightly at the unexpected sight of him, then smiled. “Do come in, Badger. I was so immersed in this. It happens sometimes, which is good.”
“I know, I know. It means everything is flowing freely out of that clever head of yours.”
“Clever? Well, that’s an interesting thought, isn’t it? Odd, isn’t it. Now I do it because of the fun of it, not because I have to pay the rent or buy eggs or try to pay your wages.”
She’d always paid him, despite his protests. She’d always paid him first, even before paying the rent on Pipwell Cottage. He’d hated it but he’d known it was important to her; paying him proved to her that she had control over her life. He said, clearing his throat, “I heard the ditty about Czar Alexander and the Grand Duchess Catherine. Goodness, what a harridan she is. She certainly deserves her treatment in the song. In this case, I must admit I felt sorry for the Prince Regent. He might be a fat selfish sod, but he’s an English sod and not one of those feudal tyrants in Russia who kill peasants because they don’t like the smell of them.”
“It’s true. Grand Duchess Catherine really outdid him in rudeness, crudeness, and lewdness.” She laughed and it warmed him to his toes. “Isn’t it marvelous that all those juicy words rhyme?”
“Yes, and they roll off the tongue. I hear it everywhere I go.”
“The Czar is just as horrible, rude to the Prince Regent, hobnobbing with the Whig opposition who in truth think him a fool. He deserves a ditty all to himself, I think.”
“Possibly,” Badger said. “But he didn’t force himself into that all-male banquet at the Guildhall like the Grand Duchess did. Then she insisted that all the music be stopped because it made her sick. I should have loved to be there.”
“I too. Can you imagine the Regent having to plead with her to allow the musicians to play God Save the King?”
“Yes,” he said, “and she complained loudly through the whole thing. I have been thinking, though. There are other subjects than the state of diplomatic affairs, though those buffoons give as much credence to incompetence and self-aggrandizement than the gentlemen and ladies of the Ton give to frivolity and sin.”
She laughed again and he wanted to shout for the sweet sound of it. “You’ve a good point there, Badger. Hmmm, perhaps I should read other parts of the London Times and the London Gazette with that in mind.”
“You used to read all of the papers, every single word. Perhaps it is time again. I came to speak to you about something else, Duchess.”
She merely cocked her head to one side, her quill still held in her right hand, poised above the piece of foolscap.
“It’s his lordship.”
She became utterly still, almost as if she were trying to draw into herself, to protect herself. “What about him?”
“Mr. Spears has written to tell me it is possible that his lordship will be returning to London soon.”
“I see. Has he sold out again?”
“I don’t know. Mr. Spears didn’t say, so I must assume that he hasn’t.”
“Very well. This will require some thought. Ah, is that the front door knocker?”
It was. Nettles, the London butler, allowed Mr. Wicks to present himself a very short time later in the drawing room. He gave her a low bow and a frazzled smile.
“Dear Mr. Wicks, what is the matter? Do sit down, sir. Should you like a cup of tea? Brandy?”
“No, no, my lady. It’s . . . oh dear, this isn’t good, but I had to come tell you immediately so that we could make plans. I’m so very sorry, Duchess, er, my lady, that—”
“Please, Mr. Wicks. Calm yourself. Nothing could be that dreadful. Do sit down and tell me about it.”
In his agitation, he was actually pulling on a straggly lock of grizzled white hair. She waited, her silence meant to calm him, to steady his nerves, and it did. She was good at soothing nervous animals, nervous humans, all except Marcus, her husband. All she could do to him was make him want to murder her.
Finally, he managed to draw a deep breath. Then, unable to help himself, he blurted out, “The American Wyndhams are at Chase Park!”
“The Americans. Oh yes, my father’s youngest brother, my uncle, gambled and wenched until my grandfather wanted to throw him in Newgate, but then to top it all off, Uncle Grant went to America and had the gall to marry an American, which finally got him disinherited, and he went to Baltimore to live, which was her home.”
“Yes, yes, and Grant Wyndham is dead. But his wife, Wilhelmina, isn’t, nor are the three offspring. There is Trevor, James, and Ursula. Oh dear, you already know all of this. They’re all at Chase Park.”