When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,82
against the stones. “Wentworths set little store by dignity, but we very much value our self-respect.” He climbed back under the covers and drew Matilda against his side. “You are tempted to resume worrying.”
“Worry has become a habit.”
“While solving puzzles is my habit.” He kissed her temple. “Go to sleep, and dream of our next game of chess.”
She fell asleep, dreaming of Duncan, and not of chess.
* * *
“Parker continues to sniff at each bush and hitching post,” Carlu said, “and his coach was last seen not five miles from Brightwell and making straight for the estate village.”
Thomas Wakefield pretended to study the letter on his blotter, though he already knew damned well what it said. “If you intend to bruit family secrets about, at least close the door.”
Carlu folded his arms. “Everybody in this household knows you’ve left Miss Matilda to the wolves. What we don’t know is why.”
Wakefield was having some difficulty with that question himself. “Because larger issues come to bear on her situation. Matilda should never have bolted the way she did.” Much less taken an epistle not intended for her eyes.
Carlu prowled the study like a hungry cat. “Parker has all but found her, and you wait here in London, sipping your tea and reading your mail. That is not the behavior of a loving father.”
That was the behavior of a desperate man. “Parker has not found her, more’s the pity. He’s a gentleman, he’ll deal with her carefully. She can tell him she simply lost interest in his suit and left London rather than give him his congé.” Please, ye saints and angels, let that be Matilda’s strategy.
Carlu advanced and slapped both palms on the desk. “She trounces Russian princelings at chess. She married a German duke and likely spent the wedding breakfast telling him how to run his duchy. Sending one presuming Englishman packing would not have challenged her but for your damned schemes.”
A promise of slow death burned in Carlu’s dark eyes. Perhaps he, like half the Continental nobility, had fallen in love with Matilda.
“Carlu, you forget yourself. I suspect you’re growing homesick.”
Carlu leaned nearer, bringing with him the scents of wool and leather. “I do not forget myself, Thomas Wakefield. The coach will be out front in a quarter hour. You and I, Petras and Tomas, are traveling to Berkshire.”
Wakefield rose, though his height would be no defense against the reflexes of a younger, angrier man.
“I have sent missive after missive to the general since Parker took a notion to go searching for Matilda. I have heard nothing in response. Now I learn damned Battersleigh was called to Gibraltar on some emergency or other, and I have no idea to whom I could take this matter in his absence.”
Carlu straightened. “Then you should have marched yourself down to Horse Guards and asked a few discreet questions. You excel at discreet questions. This whole scheme was General Battersleigh’s idea.”
A quiet little favor, Battersleigh had called it. A matter of military housekeeping.
“In Battersleigh’s absence, I will do as any experienced operative does when the lines of communication have gone silent. I’ll remain at my post and wait for further orders.”
Carlu’s mouth quirked in a smile rife with deadly charm. “Oh no, no, no, Mr. Wakefield. That might be the protocol for the military mules, bound in harness to their chain of command. Those of us entrusted with more delicate matters know that when we are without guidance from our superiors, we use our own judgment and make shift as best we can. Pack a bag, sir. We’re off to rescue a fair maiden.”
Leaving nobody to rescue her father. “Without Battersleigh to take a hand in matters, Matilda can see me hanged, Carlu. Parker would love that. Catch me out, now that I’ve retired, and Battersleigh nowhere to be found. That’s not how this game was supposed to end.”
Carlu headed for the door. “Parker all but has your daughter. This is no longer a game, and for as long as you took the coin of any willing to pay your price, you probably deserve to hang.”
“Then you hang with me.”
“We must, indeed, all hang together,” Carlu retorted, “or most assuredly we shall all hang separately.”
He was quoting some dastardly American, traitors the lot of them.
Which was fitting, given the situation.
* * *
“What do we know for certain?” Stephen asked, settling onto the wooden bench at the edge of the parterre.
Duncan knew absolutely that he was in love with Matilda Wakefield, and that—oddly and inconveniently—made