Authors: Tracy Anne Warren
“Did he look well?” she asked.
“His lordship gave every appearance of enjoying robust good health, your Grace.”
“Hmm. Well, since he is arrived, please inform Chef there will be three of us for dinner this evening. And have a tea tray sent up to the family drawing room. Unless Lord Christopher has an objection, ask him to join me there in half an hour’s time.”
“Very good, your Grace.” Approval showed in March’s wizened eyes. He bowed and closed the door behind him.
She sighed. So much for reading this afternoon. She hoped she’d done the right thing asking Kit to take tea with her. Perhaps she should have left him to his own devices since he clearly did not wish for company. But they were related now and it would be best if they could develop a cordial relationship right from the start.
Of course, she had no true idea how Jeannette had gotten on with him in the past. She would simply have to muddle through just as she had been doing all these weeks. She slipped her book into its hiding place underneath the thick cushion of her seat, then left the sanctuary of her room, Horatio trailing in her wake.
“If you must know, I’ve been sacked. Sent down. Banished.”
Kit made his dramatic statement, then stuffed a tea sandwich into his mouth, chewing as if he was in need of vital replenishment after issuing such a vivid declaration.
He swallowed and immediately reached for another sandwich. “Adrian’s going to murder me when he finds out I’ve been expelled. He’ll likely set me to digging drainage ditches on one of his farms as punishment.”
“Surely not,” Violet said, unable to prevent her sympathetic nature from coming to the fore. “Mayhap it will not be as dreadful as you imagine.”
“No, it will be worse.” He drank some tea, his long, lean frame slumped in his seat. He reminded Violet of a sparer, younger version of his brother.
“When will he be back, do you know?” Kit mumbled in a mournful tone.
“Anytime, I should imagine.”
Kit stared at the red raspberry jam tart on his plate, his expression as doleful as a condemned man awaiting the final hour of his execution. After long contemplation, he ate the sweet in one bite.
“I would have gone to Town, but my quarter’s allowance is spent already. Won’t get another till the new year.”
“Was it gaming or women, then, that did the damage?” A couple of months ago she wouldn’t have had the nerve to ask such an impertinent question. But pretending to be her twin seemed to be lending her an extra measure of bravado as of late.
He studied her for a long minute out of deep-set hazel eyes, then shrugged. “If you must know, it was neither women nor gambling. It was a foot race.”
“A foot race? Where could the harm be in that?”
Having the grace to look slightly chagrined, he crossed his well-shod feet and lowered his eyes. “A naked foot race.”
She gasped, unable to hide her astonishment. Startling images flickered through her mind. Realizing her mouth was hanging open, she forced it closed.
“It seemed like jolly good fun at the time,” he mused. “Three laps around the University commons before the clock strikes midnight, best man wins and all that. Of course, the lot of us were sadly in our cups when we hatched the fool plan. Who knew Dean Musgrove would pick that particular evening to take his wife up to the roof for a late-night astronomical survey of the heavens?”
He paused, a naughty grin creeping over his lips. “Guess she ended up seeing a great deal more than stars.”
The humor of the situation bubbled up inside her. “Then it
was
wagering, after all,” she accused. A small burst of laughter escaped, completely ruining the effect of her stern words.
“More of a dare really. We had been discussing past house initiation capers and, well, it all sort of escalated from there. Brentholden is a champion runner. I said I could best him.”
“So it was only you and this one other man?”
“The rest of our crowd were there cheering us on, but they were too pusillanimous to take part in the actual race.”
“What happened to Mr. Brentholden?”
“He’s out, but only for the rest of this semester. If he keeps his record clean, he’ll be back in without blemish.”
“And you will not,” she said as a statement, not a question.
A mixture of bitter dejection settled over his features. “It was not my first infraction.”
She considered his words, thinking of her scapegrace brother. Darrin had spent his life embroiled in one peccadillo after another, several far more serious than this. Last year he’d run up a debt of nearly five thousand pounds playing dice and cards. Then turned up on their father’s doorstep, pockets completely to let, begging for the funds to cover his losses. Seemed the bone-crackers would be after him otherwise. Worse, he had nearly caused a public scandal by having an affair with the wife of one of his professors at Cambridge. The professor had wanted to run him through. Instead he’d been forced to settle for Darrin’s apology and his promise to leave school and never set foot in the town of Cambridge again.
Seen in that light, Kit’s indiscretion was rather insignificant. Certainly not worthy of expulsion. Leaving out mention of Darrin, Violet stated her opinion to her new brother-in-law.
He shrugged, cast once more into the doldrums. “Sadly, the University board did not see it that way. I was informed by that hidebound body politic that I may apply again next term for readmittance in the fall, which may or may not be granted. As far as I am concerned, they can keep their benighted school. Unfortunately, my brother doesn’t agree. I am to have an education whether I wish to have one or not.”
“What would you do if you were not at University?”
He paused, a surprised look on his face as if no one had ever thought to ask him such a question before. He reached for another raspberry tart, ate while he considered his response.
“Travel, I believe,” he mused. “There are so many intriguing places in the world: India, China, the South Seas, the Americas. I hear they have herds of monstrous beasts, great shaggy brown creatures that run wild throughout the unexplored regions of their western lands. Buffalo, I believe they are called.”
Fascinated, she wanted to ask him more. Instead she refreshed her tea and buried her interest inside the cup. Jeannette would have found nothing the least bit absorbing in hearing about buffalo, even if she did long to travel abroad.
“Well,” she responded, forcing herself more firmly into the role she had agreed to portray, “the Continent is adventurous enough for me. Assuming your brother ever agrees to take me. This wearisome business of his seems never to have an end.”
She watched a nascent light of interest sputter out in Kit’s eyes. “Yes, well, he has much responsibility on his shoulders.”
“As do we all. Chef is making medallions of beef tonight for dinner. I have asked that an extra place be set for you, of course.”
“My thanks, but it may be pleasanter for us all if I do not join you this evening.” He set his teacup and plate aside.
“As you wish, but I hope you will reconsider. He may be angry now but this will pass, likely sooner than you imagine. You are his brother and he loves you dearly. Nothing can change that.”
Before Kit had an opportunity to reply, Adrian strode into the room.
The duke shot a frowning look at his sibling. “March told me you were here. What has occurred?”
“Is that any way to greet your brother?” Violet reproached in a soft voice. “Come sit and have some tea.” She patted the sofa cushion next to her. “You must be famished after your long day. How did it go?”
Kit waited, expecting his brother to make some curt, dismissive remark to her suggestion, then have directly at him. Instead Adrian shelved the interrogation and did as his wife asked, moving to take a seat beside her.
He let her serve him hot tea from a fresh pot one of the maids brought in, along with a plate of assorted sandwiches and scones. She added an extra dollop of clotted cream on the side just the way he preferred it.
Allowing her to draw him out, Adrian gave them an accounting of his day’s business. At length, Adrian turned to his wife. “My dear, thank you for the delicious repast. If you will excuse us, my brother and I have some things I believe need discussing. Kit, shall we adjourn to my office?” Adrian stood, moved to the door, his suggestion a command.
Stealing himself with a deep breath, Kit levered up out of his chair. He paused to make a short, polite bow to his sister-in-law.
“You never told me,” she murmured in a voice too low to reach Adrian’s ears. “Who won the race?”
Kit’s eyebrows shot skyward, a small grin erasing a trace of the dejection from his face. “I did.”
Contrary to Kit’s glum prediction, Adrian did not force him to perform manual labor as penance for his foolish indiscretion. Nor was he confined to his room on a diet of bread and water or banished to the family’s remotest estate on Scotland’s Orkney Islands.
No, what Adrian did was far, far worse. At least to Kit’s way of thinking.
His brother set him upon an intense course of study with Vicar Dittlesby. A retired clergyman, the man was so old he could actually recall the birth of Mad King George. With a fashion sense stuck in the last century, Dittlesby still wore a curled white wig upon his head and favored long frock coats. Almost deaf, he carried a small metal horn that he would lift to his ear to hear. Despite its use, Kit often had to raise his voice to a near shout.
Age and infirmity aside, the vicar’s mind was tack sharp. A learned scholar, he knew Greek and Latin and all the classic texts so well, he might have penned them himself. Nothing got by Vicar Dittlesby.
Adrian certainly knew how to turn the thumbscrews when it suited him, Kit decided. His plan—laid out in a frigid voice during that first agonizing meeting—was to discuss Kit’s status with University officials and get him reinstated. Meanwhile, Kit was to complete all the work he was currently missing so that he might sit for exams at the end of term and not fall behind. There were to be no more infractions. He would be as circumspect as a monk. And he would willingly study with Vicar Dittlesby, no matter how much it might pain him to do so.
Adrian set down the law and Kit obeyed.
Yet there was only so much misery a man could endure. Which was why, after nearly two weeks of study, Kit sought refuge in the one place he hoped he could elude detection.
His sister-in-law’s study.
He knew she disappeared most afternoons for a few hours. At first he thought she was slipping off to nap or pen letters to friends, or walk that behemoth dog of hers. Then he realized she was not engaged in any of those activities. He asked one of the housemaids, a pretty little armful who giggled every time he got within ten feet, where her Grace disappeared to each day. The answer—her study in the rear of the house.
His brain ached after a day spent ciphering calculus equations and translating passage after endless passage of Greek and Latin. He knocked on the door to Jeannette’s study, letting himself in a brief second after she gave her assent. He closed the door and pressed his back flat against it, fully aware he must look like a fox fleeing from a pack of slavering hounds.
His sister-in-law gave him an inquiring look. “Is something amiss, Kit?”
He forced himself to relax, move into the room. “No, not at all. Do you mind if I sit in here for a bit? I promise not to interrupt whatever it is you’re doing.”
Eyes shrewd, she waved him toward a matching armchair located on the opposite side of the fireplace. “Desperate for a break from the vicar, I take it.”
He sank into the seat, relief washing over him. “Yes, rather.” His lips curved into a sheepish smile. “He was preparing to launch into a comparative analysis of Socrates and the great Roman Stoics when he excused himself for a few minutes—nature’s call, I believe. I fear I took advantage of his absence and slipped out of the room.”
“If you are not careful,” she teased, “he may call out a search party. But you are welcome to remain here as long as you like. I was just…” she paused, sliding the sewing frame at her elbow several inches closer “…embroidering.”
“I brought a book with me.” He held up a thick tome bound in dark leather. “That way if I am found I can claim I misunderstood what the vicar said and came in here to study. He only hears about half of what I say as it is, and always when I’ve made some foolish error.” He ran a hand through his short black curls. “Adrian is a devil to have sicced him on me.”
She smiled gently. “I am sure he had a good reason for his choice.”
“Torture. That was his reason.” He leaned forward, angling his head. “Are my ears bleeding yet? I wasn’t subjected to so many hours of lecture at University. I may soon go as deaf as that old man. And my eyes. Are they as red as I suspect? I fear they will fall out from all the reading.”
She shook her head at his exaggerated humor, squinting slightly as she traced her fingertips over the surface of her embroidery. She jumped suddenly and stuck a finger in her mouth.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded. “Pricked my finger on the needle. Stupid of me.”
“Mayhap you should find a duller sewing implement.”
“Yes, mayhap,” she murmured.
A knock came at the door. Kit stiffened. Had his hiding spot been discovered already?
March stepped into the room, barely giving him a glance. “Your Grace,” the majordomo said, “I am sorry to interrupt, but there has been an accident in the kitchens. One of the maids dropped a heavy pot of boiling wash water and has sustained several burns. I thought you would wish to be notified.”
Instantly alarmed, she straightened. “Of course I do. Has a physician been called?”
“A boy was dispatched to summon the local healer.”
“No, no, you must have Dr. Montgomery come.” Dr. Montgomery was the duke’s personal physician, a young London-trained doctor whom Adrian had convinced to come to the area two years before. “He will know what to do.”
“Yes, your Grace.”
“Was it Sarah?” she asked.
“No. Brenna, the one from the north country.”