When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,85
created problems of her own.” This hedge was older than the last and more thickly overgrown. Duncan swung hard.
“Then eliminate Matilda Wakefield,” Stephen said. “Turn her into Mary Ellen Wentworth, and take up residence in Vienna or Georgia.”
“Run, you mean.” If the problem was that Matilda was wanted for high crimes, then leaving Britain was a possible solution. Duncan wasn’t convinced Matilda’s supposed guilt was the fundamental issue, however. More was afoot than a spy’s version of chess gone wrong.
Stephen, who would never run again, leaned on his rake. “She gained possession of treasonous correspondence. She did not report that to anybody in authority. She absconded with the evidence, she is apparently the daughter of a known spy and the widow of some wealthy German. I’d run like hell, though of course that will make her look even more guilty than she already does, and put your neck in a noose as well.”
“I’ve told her I’m willing to take that risk, but first I owe Quinn and Jane an explanation.” And then—possibly within the week—Duncan could quit England’s shores for all time. Why, when he professed to enjoy travel above all things, did that prospect now hold no appeal whatsoever?
* * *
Matilda had awakened alone, and for the first time in ages, she’d been content to drowse beneath the covers. Duncan’s warmth and scent lingered with her, as did an odd sense of well-being. She’d made a choice—she’d chosen him—and the rest of the game would sort itself out for better or for worse.
Duncan had left a tea tray by the hearth, so Matilda was thus wrapped in his robe, enjoying a hot cup of gunpowder and a buttered currant bun when Danvers came in carrying a bucket of coal.
“Gracious me, I do beg your pardon, Miss Matilda.” Danvers set the bucket down. “Might as well build up the fire whilst I’m here, unless you’d rather I didn’t.” Danvers wasn’t blushing. The maid was, in fact, smiling.
So was Matilda. “Please do build up the fire. Would you happen to know where Mr. Wentworth is?”
Danvers set aside the hearth screen. “In the garden, along with Lord Stephen. They’re battling the hedges, which is thankless work for a gardener. Less to do in the spring if they tend to it now, I suppose. We’re all a-twitter to soon be entertaining the duke and duchess here at Brightwell. Cook is poring over her recipes, and Mrs. Newbury and Mr. Manners have us cleaning up a storm.”
“Duchesses are people, Danvers, the same as anybody else. Give the woman clean sheets and hot tea, she’ll probably be easy enough to get along with.” In Matilda’s experience, even princesses and queens valued those amenities.
“Yesterday we scrubbed the whole nursery. We haven’t had children on the premises since the old duke entertained, years ago. Had house parties, shooting parties, card parties…Brightwell were grand once.” She swatted a rag along the mantel, then ran her cloth around the base of the brass candlesticks.
“Will you decorate for Yuletide?”
Danvers paused in her dusting. “We haven’t, not usually, but with company coming, we really ought to. I’ll say something to Mrs. Newbury. She might be waiting for Mr. Wentworth to give his permission. Enjoy your tea, Miss Matilda.” Danvers hurried out, leaving the bucket behind.
Matilda considered calling the maid back and warning her to keep Mr. Wentworth’s private business to herself, but the admonition would be pointless. Servants had few enough joys in life, and gossiping about their employers figured near the top of the list.
They would gossip among themselves, but apparently not with others outside the household.
Matilda dressed, some of her pleasure in the day ebbing. By Christmas, she and Duncan might be on a ship for America, where the Crown had no authority. Perhaps they’d establish a home in Stockholm, though pitch-dark winters and relentless summer daylight did not appeal to her.
Very likely, they’d move frequently, uproot their children and any servants, and change their names from location to location.
While Papa lived out his dotage in Mayfair, surrounded by servants and beautiful art. That thought should please Matilda. Instead, it struck her as grossly unfair.
Unjust, even. She made her way to the study, intent on immersing herself in Duncan’s beautiful prose. He did not deserve a life of obscurity in foreign climes, but then, neither did Matilda. She’d made an error in judgment, fled when she should have remained near enough to consider the chessboard at greater length.
“Water over the dam,” she muttered, taking up her edited version of