Drummond was nowhere to be found. The annoying man was not in the pantry supervising the polishing of the silver. Nor was he in his office—and she’d sent a maid to fetch him.
“He’s often in the library, Your Grace,” one of the footmen said, bowing slightly to her.
Why on earth would he be in the library? He hadn’t struck her as being particularly scholarly the night before.
He wasn’t there, either.
Rather than send the entirety of the staff looking for him—and causing a great deal of speculation, not to mention gossip—she sublimated her irritation and set herself on another course, that of finding her mother’s hair clip.
The roof was bathed by sunlight. There were only a few tiny puddles here and there as proof of the storm the night before. A cool wind brushed the tendrils of hair away from her cheeks. The air smelled fresh with no tinge of decay. The sky was a brilliant blue and from here, atop Marsley House, she could see the skyline of London stretching out before her. No hint of Spitalfields was visible.
Although the house boasted a formal Tudor garden, she missed the valleys and fertile fields of the country. Summer seemed to last so much longer there until, at last, autumn reluctantly arrived, turning the leaves brown and scattering them across the lanes.
Standing here she might have been a princess in a castle, one elevated away from the masses. Instead, she knew she wasn’t royalty. Nor was she exempt from the emotions any other person felt.
At the moment it was anger. Anger at Mrs. Armbruster, at her father, at Drummond. Some of that anger—perhaps most of it—was set aside for herself. She should have been stronger. She should have refused to go to the Foundling Hospital. She should have stayed in the country.
Perhaps she should only be angry at circumstances. Fate had decreed her life, altered her destiny, and changed her future.
She walked to the edge of the roof, putting her hands on the banister, and looked down at the gravel approach below her. The height made her dizzy and more than a little nauseous. Cautiously, she stepped back.
A sparkle caught her attention. Something was lodged not far from the railing, an object gleaming in the afternoon sun. She was bending to retrieve it when she was suddenly grabbed about the waist and jerked back a few feet.
“Och, you daft woman,” an accented voice said.
“Let me go!”
“Why, so you can try to throw yourself from the roof again? Not on my watch.”
She tried to wrench herself away, but Drummond had a good grip on her. His arms were wrapped around her midriff and were pressing upward on her breasts. She hadn’t been touched like that by a man for years. She had certainly never been assaulted by one.
She tried to use her elbows to punch him but he didn’t release her. Instead, he pulled her backward until the heels of her shoes were grinding into the surface of the roof.
“Let me go, you idiot. I wasn’t going to throw myself off the roof. I was looking for something.”
“And is that what you were trying to do last night, you daft woman?”
“Would you stop calling me that,” she said. She’d never been talked to in such a manner. Who did he think he was? “Let me go,” she said, calming herself so she could speak. Her heart was racing and she could barely breathe. “I didn’t. It was a mistake. You misinterpreted everything.”
“Did I misinterpret you crawling over the railing last night?”
“Did I really do that?” she asked, startled.
“Aye, you did, and very determined you were.”
“I had too much wine,” she said, embarrassed to be making such a confession to someone she didn’t know. Someone who was in her employ, at least for now.
“I’ve had my share of nights like that, Duchess. I never once tried to end my life.”
She didn’t have anything to say in defense of herself. Was there a defense she could offer? Not one word came to mind. Prior to last night she couldn’t remember ever being on the roof.
“How did you know where I was?” she asked.
“I was told you were looking for me when I got back from the stables.”
“And you naturally came here to see if I was intent on throwing myself to my death again?”
“Something like that,” he said, not relaxing his hold.
“You can let me go,” she said. “I can assure you that I have no intention of ending my life.”
In the past few minutes she’d allowed herself to relax in his grip. She lay her head back against his chest. Anyone looking at them might think they were lovers who’d slipped up to the roof for a few moments alone and now stood there, captivated by the sight of London lit by the sun.
No one would think that the two of them were antagonists.
“I don’t know what came over me,” she said, compelled to say something. “I don’t remember wanting to end my life. I’m glad you stopped me.”
“He isn’t worth it, you know. Not all your grieving.”
Anger suddenly bubbled up from where it had been hiding. She pulled free of him and turned.
“How could you say such a hideous thing?”
“Because it’s the truth.”
She hadn’t meant to cry. She really hadn’t. Especially not in front of him. But she couldn’t hold back the reservoir of tears, all that weeping she wouldn’t permit herself to do at the hospital. She took a step back, but he wouldn’t allow her that. Instead, he reached out and grabbed her wrist and pulled her to him. Only then did she realize that she’d been backing up to the edge.
For some reason, that made her cry harder. Then he was holding her again. His arms were around her back, his hands flat against her cloak. She couldn’t reach up and brush her face, so she had no other choice but to lay her cheek against his jacket and let it soak up her tears.
He said something in Gaelic to her, some barely whispered words in a voice that sounded reluctant and ill at ease.
When she tried to move away, he shushed her and pulled her close once again.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I had no right to speak of your husband that way. Of course you mourn him. That’s what wives do, don’t they?”
She held herself still, closing her eyes against her tears. He thought she was crying for George. He thought her grief was for a man she’d never truly understood, for a stranger with whom she lived for six years.
She moved her arm up and placed her hand against Drummond’s chest. His heart thundered against her palm.
“Gabh mo leisgeul,” he said. “I didn’t mean to ridicule your pain.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m sorry. It’s Gaelic for I’m sorry, and I am.”
He confused her. What kind of man was this Scottish majordomo? On one hand, he was vicious in his speech, yet he’d tried to save her not once but twice.
She pushed free finally, taking a step back and keeping her gaze on the surface of the roof. She couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t acknowledge this moment of intimacy. He was the first man who’d touched her or attempted to comfort her for years.
Also, he was the only man who’d ever apologized for his actions.
“I was going to release you from my service the minute I saw you today,” she said, her voice low. “I was going to demand that you leave Marsley House within the hour, without recommendation or reference. I was going to tell you how much I detested your speaking to me in that way and that I considered you a despicable creature.”
She dared herself to look up at him.
Mrs. Armbruster was right.
Why hadn’t she noticed how handsome he was until this exact second? His eyes were a soft green. His hair was thick and black, and he had a dimple on the left side of his mouth. His was a strong, square face, one that would probably be transformed by a smile. Now it was stern and somber and a little daunting.
“But I can’t do any of those things now, Drummond. Not after coming to the conclusion that you saved me from myself. That was last night, however. Today I only came here to find something.”
He didn’t look as if he believed her and she regretted that.
“I do not mourn my husband,” she said, giving him the truth as a gift, a payment for his protection of her. “God forgive me, but all I felt was relief at his death.”
She turned and headed for the door to the third floor. How odd that she could feel his eyes on her all the way down the stairs.
Adam walked to the edge of the roof, stood where the duchess had been, and looked around. It took him a moment, but he saw what she’d been reaching for, a leaf-shaped diamond brooch. He bent and picked it up. The brooch rested in his palm, the diamonds glittering and sparkling like fire was in their depths.
What kind of woman treated this bauble with such disdain? The kind who had been, no doubt, raised with no fear. Not like his mother, who worried about each meal or if the landlord was coming before she’d earned the rest of the rent. He’d been twelve when she died of a cough that had consumed her.
If she’d still been alive or if Mary had lived, he would’ve stayed behind in Glasgow. He would’ve made his way, somehow, maybe at the foundry or one of the cotton mills. He’d have been determined to support them. But that was water into the Clyde, wasn’t it? They hadn’t lived and there’d been no reason for him to stay there.
He pushed the thoughts of his past down deep. What good was it to dwell on something he couldn’t change?
He closed his fist around the brooch so tightly that he could feel the diamonds pressing into his skin. Marble Marsley—hardly that, though, was she?
Whom did she mourn? He hadn’t asked Mrs. Thigpen enough questions about the Duchess of Marsley, and he was determined to correct that oversight as quickly as possible.
First, however, he had an obligation to return to his pose as majordomo and then to his assignment. Along the way, if he could forget the surprising duchess, all the better.