The Guardian Duke: A Forgotten Castles Novel (6 page)

A sudden spark of yellow burst through the air with the clang of the swords meeting. It stretched into a line and then, as if exploding, turned into droplets of color in his peripheral vision. It faded before he was even sure he'd seen it, but with the next clash of steel there were more. Several quick parries and it was as if they were standing in yellow raindrops that disappeared before he could track their progress. He became distracted and clumsy.

Roberé took advantage of the moment. He thrust . . . hard . . . brought the edge of his blade to Gabriel's throat, both of them panting, Gabriel wide-eyed with shock and confusion. The colors disappeared as fast as they had appeared. Roberé leaned into Gabriel's face and grinned, pressing his sword just hard enough to prick the skin as he had done to him countless times.

Roberé cracked a smile. "Give up, Your Grace?" his lips said.

Gabriel backed away and bowed. "Well done, Monsieur Alfieri."

Roberé said something else, but Gabriel couldn't quite make it out so he only nodded again. "I must be on my way. Until next time." He didn't wait for a response, just turned to go, hoping the man didn't say anything else. Hoping he wasn't being too strange or rude.

What had just happened? He hardly knew what to think of it. And thinking of it sent prickles of a new kind of fear down his spine. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, took a deep breath, and then concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other instead of standing like a buffoon on the front lawn.

The air was crisp and windy, drying the sweat on his face as he walked back to his house. On most Tuesdays he would stop in to his club to gather the latest news after his fencing lesson. Impossible now. How long would he be able to keep up this charade? He should leave London for a while. Go back to Bradley House in Wiltshire and hide out until his hearing returned.

What if it doesn't return?

He ignored the question, thinking instead of his favorite room in Bradley House: the music room. Over the years he had hired some of the most famed composers, from Beethoven to Clementi and opera singers from around the world to come and play for him. It was the one thing he'd never been able to master—music. He'd tried to learn to play the pianoforte and the violin to no success. He'd taken extensive voice lessons from famous teachers—and watched their faces wince and grimace. The one thing he loved above all else and he was miserable at it. He could manage to keep a beat, but not much else.

Thinking of beats he felt the cadence of the sword fight rush over him. Those streaks and dots of color. What were they? Should he ignore what had happened? Anxiety gnawed at his stomach. The fact that it might have something to do with his brain didn't escape him. The doctors were worthless, the lot of them. He'd studied biology and every other branch of science known to man. Something was wrong with his brain, not his ears. He was certain of it . . . in his gut. But he didn't want to be.
Big, deep breath. Just keep breathing.
No sense conjuring up demons bent on making him mad!

He picked up his pace as his brownstone came into view. Then he saw his mother's carriage in front of his house. So, the dowager duchess was here to check on him. It was a wonder he had dodged her this long. She was bound to have heard of the tragedy from the grapevine of servant gossip at the very least. Wonderful. Just what he needed.

The idea of turning around and heading to his club, or anywhere else, entered his mind but he took a bracing breath and trudged forward. May as well get it over with.

Moments later he walked through the great hall and handed over his hat and cloak to his butler. "Her Grace has called?"

Hanson bowed and nodded his head. "She is in the front salon." He pointed in the general direction of the room and spoke slowly so Gabriel could read his lips. "Would you like tea brought in?" He made the motion of holding a teacup and bringing it to his lips, which he pursed as if taking a sip. It galled him, the way the servants had changed to accommodate his "condition," but it did help him understand them.

"Yes, of course. Though I suspect she has already rang for it. Check on the refreshments, will you?"

"Yes, Your Grace." He bowed and marched down the hall toward the back kitchens.

Gabriel turned toward the salon, took a fortifying breath, and entered. He came to an abrupt stop as his mother rose, her hand to her mouth, her face gone sheet white, as if seeing someone waking from the dead, and his sisters, two of them at least, running and throwing themselves at him. His eldest sister, Charlotte, burst into tears from the other side of the room.

He was, for a second, glad he couldn't hear them.

"No need for all this caterwauling," he intoned in his best duke's voice. The sound of his voice only served to incite them, however. Mary clung to his arm while his youngest sister, Jane, looked up from her place at his other side and asked, "Can you hear me, Gabriel? Can you hear anything at all?"

It was too much. With gentle but firm hands, Gabriel pushed them back from him. "Please, ladies, sit down and let us discuss this without all the hysterics. I assure you I feel perfectly well."

Mary nodded and took hold of Jane's hand, dragging her back toward the gold-and-blue-striped settee. His mother collapsed back into her chair, dabbing her cheeks with an elegant handkerchief. Charlotte appeared unable to move, so Gabriel strode forward, held out his own handkerchief to her, led her to a Louis XIV gilded chair, and pressed her back into it. She seemed on the verge of needing smelling salts, an alarming fact as Charlotte was the stalwart one of the sisters.

Gabriel turned away from them to collect himself, walked to the sideboard, and poured a glass of water from the pitcher. He hoped no one was talking. He hoped they were patiently waiting for him to explain. Turning toward them, his gaze roved over each anxious face. His mother, a tall willowy woman who still bore the mark of her earlier beauty, was rarely prone to tears. She had collected herself, her back with the usual ramrod in it, her long neck displayed, chin up, and intelligent eyes studying him. Charlotte was still dabbing at her eyes but was doing her best to be the elder sister and a good example of how to behave even in extraordinary circumstances. Mary, the shy one of the group, who had such a soft heart that she could hardly bear to see an insect smashed, much less her brother in pain, looked at him with sad, frightened eyes. And Jane, the cheery one whom everyone loved . . . Gabriel looked away from Jane's quivering lips and cleared his throat.

Good heavens, they were wrecks, the lot of them.

"I presume you have heard of my, um, 'condition.'"

His mother said something but he held up his hand. "Let me explain what has happened and then you may ask your questions." His mother clamped her lips together.

"I was attending the opera as usual, about three weeks ago. Mr. Meade, you remember my secretary, came to my box with a letter from the prince regent. Something about a guardianship that I have inherited." He waved that away with one hand, not wanting to go into those details. "As I was reading the letter, I was struck with a great pain and dizziness, here." He tapped the upper part of his forehead. "Over the course of the next several moments, I realized that I couldn't hear any longer. It was a buzzing sound at first and then nothing."

He paced across the thick carpet in front of them. "Since that time I have, of course, seen the best doctors and tried several treatments. Nothing has
yet
worked." He swung toward them and locked gazes with each one by turns. "But know I am convinced that my hearing will return. This is a temporary condition that we need to keep amongst ourselves. In the meantime I am becoming better at reading lips if you speak slowly, not too slowly, just slowly enough and enunciate your words. Also, I have employed the use of speaking books. Rather, you write down what you want to say or ask me. Seeing that there are four of you, I suggest we use the book." He smiled at them, trying to lighten the mood. "I know how much you like to talk all at once."

Jane burst into fresh tears.

Mary clung to the arm of the settee.

Charlotte pulled forth his handkerchief again and threw it over her face.

His mother looked up and mouthed,
"The ball? You have to attend. You are the host!"
She motioned around the room.

The ball.
Excellent
. He'd forgotten that he had agreed to host one of the season's most sought-after events, hoping that in doing so his mother would stop the constant reminders that he must marry and produce an heir. A ball here, in his home, might convince her that he was at least thinking about it, even though he had yet to meet a woman of the ton who inspired much of anything in him.

His mind went blank as panic rushed over him in a wave of prickling heat.

How was he going to pull off such a thing as a ball?

THE NEXT MORNING MEADE HANDED a letter across the desk with the words, words that made his heart suddenly skip a beat, "From your ward, Your Grace. Lady Alexandria Featherstone."

He took the folded paper and motioned Meade away. Why was it that he didn't want anyone around when he read it? He wasn't sure, but Meade knew his every gesture and quickly left the room.

Gabriel lifted the letter to his nose, inhaling a faint whiff of lavender coming from the page. He opened it and read the sarcastic tone. She was upbraiding him. She was upset. It was understandable. She hated him, a little. The bearer of bad news and someone over her. He wasn't surprised but it got to him, nevertheless. She was hurt . . . grieving. And even in that state of emotion, she pledged to pray for him, to love him like family. That statement told more about her than any he'd read yet. He sighed, a strange warmth filling his insides. He would allow this little show of temper. He would let her pray for him. God knew he needed it.

He took out his quill and poised it over the page with a big breath.

My dear Lady Featherstone,

Your reluctance to come under my authority is both understandable and yet ill advised. I have taken my role as your guardian with most serious intent. I would do my duty by you in a manner that will bring you security and comfort. In effect, you may trust me. I will watch over you and your estate with the same attention that I attend to my own family and self. There is no greater promise I can give you.

It will take some time, I am sure, for us to know how to proceed with one another. In the meantime, please continue your letters. I find them refreshing and want to become better acquainted. And please continue your prayers. I have need of them now more than ever.

With much regard,

St. Easton

He reread it and then, satisfied, sanded the ink, and folded and sealed it with his ducal ring. He looked at the ring afterward, the metal still warm from the wax, and wondered if she would ever be impressed with a duke.

S
he was doing the right thing.

Yes, of course she was.

Alex climbed into the hired coach and settled herself upon the threadbare seat as the coachman tied her trunks down to the top of the vehicle. She held the handkerchief of bread and cheese in her lap and took a deep breath. Already things had not gone as planned. She shook her head and looked out the window at the village of Beal, thinking of the small fortune she had paid Mr. Howard, a man of few words and a disapproving scowl, to drive her as far as Carlisle.

He'd not been happy to see her traveling alone, but she hadn't had any choice, had she? Ann and Henry were needed on the island to take care of the castle, the sheep, and the townsfolk while she was away, and she didn't think a long, arduous journey would do either of them any good. She'd been tempted to bring Latimere for protection but in the end had decided against it. She didn't know how long she would be gone and what forms of transport would be available to her. Her dear pet might put more restrictions on her, and she doubted Mr. Howard would have allowed him in the carriage, great hairy beast that he was. She'd had to add several coins to the bargain to gain his cooperation as it was.

A few minutes later the carriage shuddered and began down the lane. It was an ancient vehicle, large and lumbering, swaying on the rutted road. Alex looked back toward her island. The tide had come in and covered the causeway so she wouldn't be able to go back home for several hours, even if her courage failed her and she wanted to. Not that she did. She had to find her parents. No one else was looking for them. It was up to her to rescue them from whatever harm had befallen them.

She imagined saving them and then taking them to her guardian's house in London, proving them all wrong. The duke would stutter and raise his quizzing glass to peer at the three of them. The image of a fat, old man with a walking stick made her smile. Then frown. Upon receiving his last letter she'd had a moment's pause. He didn't sound quite so old and doddering as she'd first imagined. He sounded confident and . . . kind. Could he really care about her? Did he really want her to write more letters and continue her prayers?

Dear Lord, whatever he meant by needing my prayers, I hope You'll help him. I hope he feels Your love for him in the trials of life and that Your love gives him strength and courage and peace. And help me remember to pray for him! I haven't actually prayed very much, as You know! And now I'm feeling rather guilty about that. And help me find my parents. Amen.

As to writing more letters, she wasn't sure what to say. In a whirl of confusion she'd pulled out a worn copy of the
Magee's London Letter Writer,
a supposed guide to "the art of fashionable correspondence,"
and paged through it for clues as to how to write something so convincing that His Grace would send her more money. The book had been almost scandalous in its hinting that she play the coquette, something she had no experience doing or being. La! Flirt with a man to get more from his pockets? Not in this century! She would do as the widow in the Bible had done—the one with the land trouble who had gone to the judge so consistently, sweetly, and be persistent.