“That,” Badger said slowly, readying himself for a fight, “is quite impossible. You’d best take your leave, sir. I won’t be asking you again, if you take my meaning.” He moved to stand more squarely in the doorway and Marcus saw those huge hands of his curl into fists.
Marcus, no fool, knew the man was ready to spring for his throat. But he didn’t understand why. “It’s true, I’m the new earl of Chase. The, er, eighth earl, not the seventh. I had hoped Miss Cochrane still lived here. I have come for her, you see. She was forgotten after her father’s death, and then when Mr. Crittaker remembered her, I went immediately to Winchelsea but she was gone. It’s taken me another three months to find her and now she’s gone again.”
Badger eyed him up and down. “You’re Marcus Wyndham?”
“Yes, I am.”
“The old earl called you the devil’s own son. You are he?”
Marcus grinned. “My uncle never minced matters. Aye, I’ll own up to it.”
“You’re telling me that her father is dead?”
“Yes, he died nearly six months ago. He was thrown from his horse and died instantly. She’s still here then? You are her servant?”
“So that’s why no one came for her. Strange that neither of us considered such a possibility. I assume it was an accident?” At the young man’s nod, Badger said, “The Duchess used to speak of you when she returned from Chase Park. Actually, she said only that you were the one who named her Duchess, and that you were the devil’s own son. I don’t believe, sir, that she has much liking for you.”
Marcus laughed. “I don’t care if she hates the very grass I tread upon, just tell me that she is all right.”
“Aye, she is just fine.”
“She is eating sufficiently?”
“Aye, she eats enough.”
“But how does she afford this cottage?”
“That, sir,” Badger said, suddenly as austere as a bishop, “you’d best ask Miss Cochrane. If I may ask, sir, why are you here?”
“Would you like to invite me inside? I do need to speak with her, as you just suggested. Incidentally, who are you?”
“I am Badger. I look after the Duchess as I did her mother before her. I am her chef as well.”
“Ah,” Marcus said. “You cook?”
The huge, ugly man nodded and finally stood aside for Marcus to enter. He did, striding into a small entryway. A staircase rose just beyond him, leading to the upper floor of the cottage. He smelled roasting meat just off to his left, potent and rich. His stomach growled and his mouth began to water. He thought he heard a woman humming a neat little tune.
“Wait here, sir,” Badger said, and left Marcus without a backward look. He opened a door to the right and disappeared through it, closing it behind him. The humming stopped abruptly.
Marcus tapped his riding crop against his thigh. He was hungry, tired, and couldn’t believe that he’d been left to stand in a narrow hallway by a man who was a maid and a chef, but a man who spoke English like a little Etonian gentleman.
At least she was all right. At least she wasn’t alone. But who was paying for this cottage? Her food? Her cook?
When the door opened again, Badger said, “You may come in, sir. Miss Cochrane will see you now.”
Like she’s the bloody queen, Marcus thought, irritated. The room was small, but pleasant. It had a lived-in feeling, that’s what it was, a very welcoming feeling, and felt wonderfully cozy. There were stacks of London newspapers on the floor beside a blue brocade settee. Odd that he saw those newspapers before he noticed her, stacks and stacks of them.
It had been five years.
She was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen in his life. She’d more than fulfilled the promise he’d seen in her when she was thirteen. It wasn’t that she was gowned gloriously because she wasn’t. She was wearing a simple muslin of dark gray, its collar nearly to her chin, the sleeves tapering down her arms to button tightly around her wrists. Her black hair was in fat plaits interwoven atop her head. She wore no jewelry. There was a smudge of ink on her cheek. She was standing utterly still, just looking at him, not moving even a fingertip. He remembered that stillness of hers, the aloofness, the serenity that sat so oddly on the shoulders of a young girl.
She was more beautiful than she should be. He said, “What are you doing with all those newspapers?”
“Hello to you, Marcus.”
“Ah, hello, Duchess. It’s been a while.”
She merely nodded. “Badger tells me that my father is dead and that was why no one ever came for me. Odd, isn’t it? Dead or alive, I was still forgotten.”