Barbara Metzger (35 page)

“Well, the boys will thank—”

“Now who is being obtuse?”

Chapter Twenty-Six

“I
am afraid you will have to be more specific.” And Eleanor was afraid to get her hopes up. The duke was uncomfortable, despite not wearing a corset tonight. He had not been expecting to go out so his coat was left unbuttoned, making room for his more than plentiful dinner. He tried to hold in his less than flat stomach, then gave up and took a deep breath. “Dash it, Eleanor, it is you I’d be helping. The boys are…well, boys. They are always getting up to some prank or other, no matter that it gives their parents palpitations. They’ll be waiting at home now, mark my words, looking as innocent as cherubs. Which is not to say we don’t have to go looking.”

“We?”

She was back to that. The duke tugged at his cravat. “Rockford won’t have much experience with the sprigs. Stands to reason. He hasn’t been their father all that long. Have to be firm with them, don’t you know.”

“We?” she repeated, tapping her foot impatiently. He cleared his throat. The dratted female was worse than a dog with a bone. She was never going to give this one up. “Don’t like to see you worried, you know. Always been, ah, fond of you.”

“But ours was an arranged match. We were promised from the cradle, nearly.”

The knot of his neckcloth came undone from his pulling. “Bother, now if anyone sees me, they’ll think that we…that I…”

Eleanor would not think about what anyone would think. She had enough trouble thinking about her nephews, instead of how very welcoming his grace appeared now that he was not so stiff and starched. She wondered what it would feel like to rest her head on the soft middle of him, like a pillow. She wondered if he would mind that her own attributes were not all they had been when she was a girl, nor in the same place. “Wasn’t it? Wasn’t it an arranged match?”

“Neither one of us had to go through with the engagement. Nothing formalized until then, you know. The parents would have been disappointed, but nothing more. I asked you, recall, if you truly wanted to marry me, or if your family was pushing you into the match. You said it was your choice. That I was your choice.”

Having a formal betrothal, with announcements in the newspapers and balls in their honor, had not kept him from missing their wedding day, so Eleanor supposed he could have refused their parents’ projected union, just as she could have turned down his proposal. “You really wanted to marry me?”

“I did not want a wife who accepted me for my prospects or to please her family. I wanted a willing bride, not a woman who disliked me and distrusted me, and who would be miserable in the marriage.”

Eleanor ignored most of his statement, to pick out the important parts. “I did not dislike you. I was afraid.”

“You? Bah. You have never been afraid of anything in your life.”

She stared at the painting of him as a young man, a dashing, devil-may-care youth. “I was afraid you would love one of your inamoratas, not me.”

“What a rare mess we made of things, eh?” He came closer and took her hand in his, patting it. “I could not recall a single one of their names, they mattered so little. I never forgot about you.”

Eleanor turned to face him, studying the changes time had wrought on his still-handsome face. “And I never stopped missing you.”

“What about that bailiff fellow?”

“I already forgot his name. What about your wife?”

“Claudia was a good woman. Why, she never once threatened to leave me singing soprano. Never hit me a blow Gentleman Jackson would applaud. Never had me making a spectacle of myself at Almack’s. She was not you, Ellie, my girl.”

“I am no longer a girl, Morton.”

He smiled. “You always were my girl.”

“And now?”

He studied their joined hands, then brought hers up toward his mouth. “I am a creature of habit, not a here-and-thereian. I have always loved you, you know.”

“And?”

“And I suppose I will love you forever.”

*

Lord Rockford was having a lot less luck than his sister. Bow Street had no news of the Hennings or Sir George. The coaching inns
recalled
no boys who matched the locket portraits, although one ostler did remember seeing a youth in the coach Rockford had hired for Canover’s brother. The young man had used the necessary, then ordered an ale, and a second. He drank them both, then left.

Most of the stable hands were abed this late in the evening and were no help, no matter how much the earl was willing to pay for information. No message waited for him at any of his stops, telling him the children had come home, and now he had exhausted all of his possibilities and his horse, too.

They would have received a ransom note by now if foul play was involved, he thought. He calculated how much money he could get his hands on immediately, just in case, how much he might have to borrow from the bank until he could sell off some investments. He loathed the idea of paying a felon to return what should not have been taken, rewarding knavery, but he’d do whatever he had to, for Alissa. He hated to go home to tell her of his failure, so he stopped for an ale himself, thinking.

If they were not abducted from the middle of Mayfair, which he truly doubted, then the boys had to be somewhere nearby. He thought of shy little Will and grave Kendall, lost in London, and had a hard time swallowing past the lump in his throat. They had backbone, though, he consoled himself, just like their mother. Their father must have had bottom, too, to break all of society’s rules to wed against his family’s wishes. To wed Alissa, Rockford’s countess.

The man’s sacrifice was worth it, Rockford decided, although Henning might have felt otherwise, disinherited and possibly dying for lack of proper medical assistance. But Alissa was worth five of any woman Henning’s parents might have chosen for him. Lud knew she was worth more than both of Rockford’s deceased wives combined. Oh, not in the monies and the lands they brought to the marriage, but in everything else that counted. Those first two matches of his had been safe, expected, practical, suitable, laudable—and disastrous.

Rockford had not intended to sacrifice anything by wedding Mrs. Henning, certainly not his social standing. A wife took her status from her husband, and his was secure enough. Besides, his countess belonged in the beau monde. She was a true gentlewoman, a lady. One had only to speak with her to know she would be a jeweled ornament of polite society, if she cared to join those hallowed ranks. He would not lose a single invitation on her account.

He had not had to give up the approval of anyone who mattered to him, for few people did. He had no one to answer to, no parent to be disappointed. His sister did not count, for her opinions would always be colored—and discredited—by her own conduct. So what had he sacrificed by marriage to the impoverished neighboring widow?

A mistress he did not want in the first place and a diplomatic career that he did not enjoy or respect.

The peace and quiet of his formally elegant but formerly lifeless residence.

And his soul.

He was a changed man, the earl acknowledged, without the distress the acknowledgment or the change should have caused. He who had vowed never to put himself under a woman’s thumb was so firmly in Alissa’s grasp that he no longer bothered to squirm. Before, his own convenience was all. Now all he wanted was to please his wife. And pleasure her. And be with her, be part of her world, part of her.

Was this love, the kind of love Henning felt for Alissa? Rockford had no idea, never having experienced that tender emotion, not since suffering calflove in his school days for the French teacher’s willing wife. If love meant having his pulse pound at the sight of her, racing from his head to his heart to his—No, that was lust. He could recognize that affliction easily enough. Having his guts gather into knots when a woman was near, though, and when she was not near, but merely in his thoughts, that was something unfamiliar to him. Why, just the womanly scent of her or the sound of her voice sent him reeling. The recollection of that one memorable night made him break out in a sweat.

Having any woman on his mind for more than a week was a new experience, but Alissa was in his thoughts constantly, which meant that his mental state was as chaotic as his house had become, as disordered as his wardrobe, and as unruly as his arousals—no, that was lust again—as unruly as his children.

He thought that might just be love, although why those old troubadours felt it was so marvelous he could not understand. He was wretched. His wife might be growing comfortable with him, perhaps even fond of him, and she had certainly enjoyed his love-making, but that did not mean she ached to be with him, not the way he wanted her more than his next breath. Or was that lust, still? No. He would move mountains for Alissa. Big ones. With a small shovel. That had to be love.

Rockford had no idea what Alissa thought of him. Likely as nothing more than a way out of poverty, a protector and a provider, with a little bed sport thrown in as a bonus. Botheration.

He had one more glass of ale before he had to go tell her he could not find her sons. Move mountains? Hell, he could not even move her boys home.

As he sipped his ale, putting off the dreaded task, he tried to cheer himself with the notion that maybe this turmoil he was suffering was temporary, a mere infatuation, as he’d occasionally felt for a new mistress at first. It would fade quickly, especially if Alissa did not return his regard. Regard, hell. He’d likely become a drunken sot if she could not love him.

He set the glass down. He was the Earl of Rockford, not some puling poet. This romantic nonsense would not last. Soon enough he could go back to enjoying other females and his well-ordered, reasonable existence. Or else he would love her forever.

*

“These will be an enormous help, ma’am,” the Bow Street inspector said after he paged through the stack of portraits Lady Rockford had done of her sons while she waited for someone to bring them back. There were pencil drawings, charcoal sketches, even a colored pastel picture so the searchers could recognize the missing children’s skin tones. Inwardly the Runner groaned, for this meant he’d have to go back to all of his usual sources of information, and his feet were already aching from the afternoon’s hunt for a hint of the Henning boys’ whereabouts.

His lordship was paying more than enough for a few blisters. The Runner and his fellow Red Breasts were tripping over each other to earn the generous wages the earl was paying, and to win the promised reward. Now the officer could see why the earl was being so openhanded. Lord Rockford was wealthy enough, to judge from the town house that was as big as the block the man from Bow Street lived on. Furthermore, the earl’s new wife, the mother of the missing boys, was worth every shilling Rockford had to lay out. As pleasant as she was pretty, she even invited her unexpected and unequal guest to join her in the parlor, and then to have a seat. He lowered his old bones into the soft chair with a sigh of pleasure, at which the countess rang for refreshments, for him, who was nothing but an arthritic old thief-taker near to retirement. Then she offered to do a sketch of him while they waited for the tea.

Not many other ladies would treat a Runner as well, so he did not mention the tears that were falling on his portrait. He said, “I’ll bring the pictures of the boys back to Bow Street so the other chaps can take a look and then show them around. We’ll have every innkeeper and street vendor on the alert, and every cutpurse and criminal too. We’ll get your sons back.”

“Thank you. I know you are trying.”

“Those gallows-baits will likely be bringing you every half-starved wharf rat, street urchin from the Rookeries, or filthy chimney sweep they can find, come morning. As if you couldn’t recognize your own sons, or might want to add a few of the ragamuffins. It’s the reward, of course.”

Alissa nodded, dropping another tear onto the drawing page. “I’ll tell the kitchens to be prepared. At least we can feed those children.” She had to stop to blow her nose, thinking of her own boys going hungry somewhere. Then she tore the sheet off her pad and handed the Runner his portrait.

“That’s me, to the life! Why, you even got that scar when Two-fingered Harry bit my ear.”

“I’m sorry it is a bit waterstained, but your wife might like it anyway.”

“She’s been gone these many years, may she rest in peace.”

“I’m sorry. But perhaps a lady friend…”

The officer shook his head. “No, but my sons might like it, so they can show their own sons what their old grandfather looked like. You see, I have boys too. They’re all grown now, but they’ll always be boys in my mind. I can see you feel the same way. But don’t worry, my lady. We’ll keep looking, even if it takes forever.”

*

When the Runner left, and no word had come from either Rockford or Lady Eleanor, Alissa had nothing to do, no occupation to keep her busy. She could not keep her thoughts from dwelling on the dire fates her sons might face, and on why her husband had not returned. He had to know she was on tenterhooks, anxious for news. So where was he, and what if he ran afoul of some of the scoundrels the Runner had mentioned? Or what if he decided that her sons were not so important after all, and had stopped his search?

Rather than fill her head with one disastrous scene after another, Alissa decided to go up to the nursery to check on her other sons.