When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,42
her features remained composed, her eyes told another tale. A mention of chess—a humble old game usually enjoyed by totty old men—moved her nearly to grief.
“I have played, mostly against my father.”
Did Duncan tell her that her father’s name was no longer secret? Did he continue to hope that she’d share that information freely?
“I want you to know something,” he said, rising to cross the room. “I overheard Stephen’s threats earlier. He left the door open, as a gentleman should, and in his great passion to protect me from the schemes of one impecunious woman, he ensured any passing footman would hear his daft declarations as well. Stephen enjoys drama.”
Miss Maddie untucked her feet and drew her skirts over them. A glimpse of plain black stockings ought not to affect Duncan, and yet, it had. Slender calves, slender feet. High arches…he wanted to get his hands on them, learn those contours with his palms and fingers and lips, and he wanted—even more—to play chess with his amanuensis.
Country life was driving him daft.
“Stephen is protective of you,” Miss Maddie said. “I admire loyalty in anybody.”
“Loyalty, though, can be misguided. Stephen mentioned that the church and I parted on bad terms.” Stephen had made a muck of passing along information he himself didn’t understand.
Miss Maddie toed on her slippers. “Shame on the church, then.”
She sat halfway across the room, and yet, Duncan caught a whiff of roses. “You’re sure I’m innocent of wrongdoing?”
“As certain as I am of anything. Had you kissed somebody’s daughter, miscounted the money in the building fund, or committed another of the usual indiscretions, the bishop would have posted you to some congregation in Northumbria, where you’d have served out a few years’ penance. The Church of England cannot afford to forgo the services of its indentured curates.”
She was wonderfully logical. “I was guilty of a worse sin. I expected moral consistency from my superiors, and did not handle disappointment well.” More than that, he might tell her someday.
He took down a chess set from the shelves beside the window, and Miss Maddie’s gaze fixed on the wooden box in his hands.
“Shall we play, Miss Maddie?” Shall we play at trust and affection and all manner of folly? Duncan knew better than to even think that, but what had years of knowing better earned him except shelves of messy journals and a plundered estate?
“I would love to.”
Chapter Eight
Thomas Wakefield’s staff was charmingly eclectic, in the opinion of his Mayfair neighbors. His porter was Corsican, his butler German. One footman was Spanish, another Portuguese, though they looked remarkably alike to English eyes. The housekeeper, the chef, and his staff were French, the under-footmen included an Erse-speaking Highlander and a Russian. One of the grooms was Rom, while the coachman was an Englishman.
Between them all, they could eavesdrop on almost any conversation and bring back an accurate report. In the unlikely event the staff had to speak before one of Wakefield’s guests, the language used was deliberately broken English.
In the servants’ hall, their grasp of world affairs would have shamed most Cabinet ministers and did provide frequent enlightenment to their employer. Their card games were unintelligible to any save themselves.
“Has our intrepid colonel decamped for the Midlands?” Wakefield asked his porter. Carlu was responsible for managing the network of post boys, urchins, hostlers, and other worthies who contributed to Wakefield’s store of knowledge.
Despite the chill air, this discussion was taking place in the town house garden, where eavesdropping was nearly impossible, though safety in the form of surveillance from the house and the mews was guaranteed.
“If the colonel is traveling to Melton, he took an odd route,” Carlu replied. “To go north, we’d expect a departure from Smithfield, taking the Great North Road up through Peterborough.”
“Bollocks.” For invective, few languages could compare with English. “He went west?”
“Out Oxford Road, sir.” Carlu tugged his scarf up around his mouth. Doubtless the man was cold, but he was also hiding his words from prying eyes. “His coach followed with very little luggage strapped to the boot.”
The worst of all possible reports. “He’s going to Brightwell, damn him and his commanding officers. He might not know precisely where the place is on the map, but it’s a ducal holding, and the locals take pride in that.”
A neglected ducal holding where Matilda had formed some of her best memories, drat the luck. The painting over the mantel had been her sole suggestion when Wakefield had been appointing his London house. The one time a