Mr. Cavendish, I Presume (21 page)

“Amelia,” he said, striding toward her.

“Your grace,” she replied.

“How lovely to see you. I see that you have met our guest.”

“Yes,” she said. “Mr. Audley is quite diverting.”

Thomas glanced over at the other gentleman, not, Amelia noted, with particular affection. “Quite.”

There was an ominous silence, and then Amelia said,

“I came to see Grace.”

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“Yes, of course,” Thomas murmured. It was, after all, the ruse they’d concocted.

“Alas,” Mr. Audley said, “I found her first.”

Thomas gave him a look that would have quelled any man of Amelia’s acquaintance, but Mr. Audley only smirked.

“I found
him
, actually,” she put in. “I saw him in the hall. I thought he was you.”

“Astounding, isn’t it?” Mr. Audley murmured. He turned to Amelia. “We are nothing alike.”

Amelia looked to Thomas.

“No,” he said brusquely, “we are not.”

“What do you think, Miss Eversleigh?” Mr. Audley asked.

Amelia turned toward the doorway. She had not realized that Grace had returned.

Mr. Audley rose to his feet, his eyes never leaving Grace. “Do the duke and I share any traits?”

At first Grace seemed not to know how to answer.

“I’m afraid I do not know you well enough to be an ac-curate judge,” she finally replied.

Mr. Audley smiled, and Amelia got the sense that they were sharing a moment she did not understand.

“Well said, Miss Eversleigh,” he said. “May I infer, then, that you know the duke quite well?”

“I have worked for his grandmother for five years,”

Grace said, her bearing stiff and formal. “During that time I have been fortunate enough to learn something of his character.”

“Lady Amelia,” Thomas cut in, “may I escort you home?”

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“Of course,” Amelia agreed, rather looking forward to the journey. She had not been expecting his company. It was a most delightful change of plans.

“So soon?” Mr. Audley murmured.

“My family will be expecting me,” Amelia said.

“We will leave right now, then,” Thomas said, offering her his arm. Amelia took it and stood.

“Er, your grace!”

They turned toward Grace, who was still standing near the doorway. She looked rather agitated. “If I might have a word with you,” she said haltingly, “before you, er, depart. Please.”

Thomas excused himself and followed Grace into the hall. They were still visible from the drawing room, although it was difficult—indeed impossible—to glean their conversation.

“Whatever can they be discussing?” Mr. Audley said, and she could tell from his tone that he knew exactly what they were discussing, and that he knew she did not know, and that he
absolutely
knew that raising the question would irritate her mightily.

“I am sure I have no idea,” she bit off.

“Nor I,” he said, breezy as always.

And then they heard: “Ireland!”

This was Thomas, his voice most uncharacteristically loud. Amelia would like to have known what was uttered next, but Thomas took Grace’s arm and moved them both to the side, where they were completely out of view. And, apparently, out of earshot as well.

“We have our answer,” Mr. Audley murmured.

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“He can’t be upset that his grandmother is leaving the country,” Amelia said. “I would think he’d be planning a celebration.”

“I rather think Miss Eversleigh has informed him that his grandmother intends that he accompany her.”

“To Ireland?” Amelia drew back with surprise. “Oh, you must be mistaken.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps. I am but a newcomer here.”

“Aside from the fact that I cannot imagine why the dowager would wish to go to
Ireland
—not,” she hastened to add, as she recalled that this was his birthplace,

“that I wouldn’t like to see your beautiful country, but it does not seem in character for the dowager, whom I have heard speak disparagingly of Northumberland, the Lake District, and indeed, all of Scotland.” She paused, trying to imagine the dowager enjoying the rigors of travel. “Ireland seems a bit of a stretch for her.”

He nodded graciously.

“But really, it makes no sense that she would wish for Wyndham to accompany her. They do not care for each other’s company.”

“How politely said, Lady Amelia. Does anyone care for their company?”

Her eyes widened in surprise. This was an even clearer declaration that he disliked Thomas. And said in his own house! It was really remarkably impolite.

And curious.

Just then, Thomas strode back into the room.

“Amelia,” he said rather briskly, “I am afraid I will not be able to see you home. I do apologize.”

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“Of course,” she replied, shooting a look at Mr.

Audley, although why she would do so, she wasn’t quite sure.

“I shall make every arrangement for your comfort.

Perhaps you would like to select a book from the library?”

“Can you read in a coach?” Mr. Audley queried.

“Can you not?” Amelia returned.

“I
can
. I can do almost anything in a coach. Or with a coach,” he added with an odd smile.

Thomas took her arm with a rather surprising firm-ness and pulled her to her feet.

“It was lovely meeting you, Mr. Audley,” Amelia said.

“Yes,” he murmured, “it does seem that you are leaving.”

“Amelia,” Thomas said curtly, leading her away.

“Is something wrong?” she asked him once they had reached the hall. She looked about for Grace, but she had disappeared.

“Of course not,” he said. “Merely matters to which I must attend.”

Amelia was about to ask about the upcoming trip to Ireland, but for some reason she did not. She wasn’t sure why; it was not a conscious decision, more of a feeling than anything else. Thomas seemed so distracted. She did not wish to upset him further.

And aside from that, she rather doubted he would answer her honestly if she did ask. He would not lie; that would be entirely out of his character. But he would brush off the query with something vague and conde-Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

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scending, and she would lose all the lovely feelings she had gained that morning.

“Might I take with me one of the atlases?” she asked.

The trip home would be less than an hour, but she had so enjoyed looking at the maps. It was something they had done together, their heads bowed over the books, their foreheads nearly touching.

The outline of a continent, the pale blue shading of an ocean on the page—these would forever make her think of him.

As she was riding home, the carriage bumping gently over the ruts in the road, she turned the pages until she found Ireland. She rather liked the shape of it, all flat in the east, then seeming to reach out its arms toward the Atlantic in the west.

She would ask Thomas about the trip the next time she saw him. Surely he would not leave the country without telling her.

She closed her eyes, picturing his face, conveniently editing out his blackened eye. They had entered a new chapter in their relationship. Of this she was certain.

She still did not know why Thomas had been drinking the night before, but she told herself that she did not care. All that mattered was that it had led him to her, and perhaps her to herself.

She’d woken up. After years of sleepwalking, she’d woken up.

Chapter 13

Four days later

After his initial shock, Thomas realized that his grandmother had been right about one thing. A trip to Ireland was the only solution to their dilemma. The truth must come out, no matter how unpleasant. Mr.

Audley might, with the proper encouragement, be willing to forgo his claim on the title (although Thomas doubted the dowager would allow that to happen). But Thomas knew that he could never find peace if he did not know who he really was. And he did not think he could continue in his position if he knew it rightly belonged to another.

Had his entire life been a lie? Had he never been the Duke of Wyndham, never been the heir to it, even?

This would mean—well, truly, this was the only amusing part of it all—his father had never been the duke, Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

209

either. It was almost enough to make him wish his father alive again, just to see his reaction.

Thomas wondered if they would have to change the inscription on his gravestone. Probably.

He wandered into the small saloon at the front of the house and poured himself a drink. He might actually enjoy erasing the title from his father’s marker, he thought. It was good to know there might be some amusement in all this.

Thomas walked to the window and gazed outside.

He came here quite frequently when he wished for solitude. He could get that in his office, of course, but there he was surrounded by ledgers and correspondence—

reminders of tasks still incomplete. Here, he could simply think.

He supposed he disliked his cousin slightly less than he had before—in the four days since he’d found him in the drawing room with Amelia, their conversations had been perfectly civil—but he still found him hopelessly unserious. He knew that Audley was once a military officer, and as such must have had to exercise caution and judgment, but Thomas still had grave doubts about his ability to apply himself with the diligence necessary to run a dukedom.

Would he understand that the livelihoods and indeed the lives of hundreds of people depended upon him?

Would he feel the history in his position? The heritage? The unspoken covenant with the soil, the stones, the blood that had fed the ground for generations?

Wyndham was more than a title one appended to one’s name, it was . . .

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It was . . .

Thomas sat down in his favorite leather chair, closing his eyes in anguish.

It was him.
He
was Wyndham, and he had no idea who he would be when it was all taken away. And it would. He was growing more certain of this by the day.

Audley wasn’t stupid. He would not lead them all the way to Ireland, for God’s sake, if proof of his legitimacy was not waiting at their destination.

Audley had to know that he would still have been showered with privilege and money even if he’d declared his mother a dockside whore, known to his father for all of three minutes. Their grandmother was so desperately infatuated with the idea of her favorite son having produced a son of his own that she would have provided him with an income for life, regardless.

Audley’s life would have been secure, and a great deal less complicated, if he was illegitimate.

Which meant that he wasn’t. Somewhere in Ireland there was a church with proof of the marriage between Lord John Cavendish and Miss Louise Galbraith. And when they found it, Thomas knew he would still be Mr. Thomas Cavendish, gentleman of Lincolnshire, the grandson of a duke, but that would be as close as his connection went.

What would he do with himself? How would he fill his days?

Who would he be?

He looked down at his drink. He’d finished it some time ago, and he thought it was his third. What would Amelia say? He’d told her he did not overindulge in Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

211

spirits, and he did not, as a normal matter of course.

But life was anything but normal lately.

Perhaps this would be his new habit. Perhaps this was how he would fill his days—in the ignoble pursuit of oblivion. Pour enough brandy into him and he could forget that he did not know who he was or what he owned or how he was meant to act.

Or—he chuckled grimly at this—how others were meant to act with him. That would be amusing, actually, watching society scramble and stammer, with not a clue what to say. What macabre fun it would be to drop in at the Lincolnshire Dance and Assembly.

London would be even worse.

And then there was Amelia. He supposed he would have to cry off, or at least insist that she do so, since as a gentleman he could not initiate the dissolution of the betrothal contract. But surely she would not want him.

And certainly her family would not.

Amelia had been raised to be the Duchess of Wyndham, every bit as much as he had to be the duke. That was no longer a possibility, since he rather doubted that Audley was going to marry her. But there were many other titles in the land, and more than a handful of unmarried peers. Amelia could do far better than a pen-niless commoner with no useful skills.

No skills useful for anything other than owning large tracts of land and the occasional castle, that was.

Amelia.

He closed his eyes. He could see her face, the sharp curiosity in those hazel eyes, the light sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. He’d wanted to 212 Julia

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kiss her the other day, more than he’d realized at the time. He lay awake in bed, thinking about her, wondering if he wanted her now only because he could no longer have her.

He thought about peeling her dress from her body, of worshipping her with his hands, his lips, of making a conquest of her skin, counting the freckles she surely must hide beneath her clothing.

Amelia.

He poured another drink in her honor. It seemed only appropriate, since it was the ale that had brought them together the last time. This was fine brandy, potent and smooth, one of the last bottles he’d acquired before it became illegal to bring it in from France. He lifted his glass. She deserved a toast made with the very best.

And perhaps another, he decided, once he’d drained his glass. Surely Amelia was worth two glasses of brandy. But when he rose and crossed to the decanter, he heard voices in the hall.

It was Grace. She sounded happy.

Happy. It was baffling. Thomas could not even imagine such a simple, unfettered emotion.

And as for the other voice—it only took another second to place it. It was Audley, and he sounded as if he wanted to seduce her.

Bloody hell.